The Observer
by BookishPower
Summary: Who is behind the skyrocketing trend in illegal potions abuse? The Ministry of Magic wants to know. Of less importance to most - who thought it would be funny to pair up Investigators Malfoy and Granger and put them on the case? (first in a romantically-themed series)
1. Chapter 1

_Teamwork is essential – it allows you to blame someone else. – Author Unknown_

* * *

"Are _you_ lost?"

Draco remembered when that same tone used to issue from his lips.

"Just looking for the men's room," he replied as equably as he could manage. Under the circumstances, and under the witch's scathing glare, it wasn't much.

"I'm sure there's one in your _own_ department," she said, moving as though she wished she could block him, but didn't have the proper authority. "You know - back there? Where they keep you under guard?"

One needed to know when to pick a battle, and Draco knew that this wasn't his time. Not over restrooms, anyway.

"Right," he snapped back, just to get the last word, and spun on his heel. Witty retorts seemed to have failed him, as of late.

The new Ministry of Magic statue in the front hall (redone for the third time) now featured a bland witch and wizard smiling in harmony and in equal power with a centaur, a mermaid, and a house elf. (The goblins had requested to be left out of this new arrangement. The centaurs were still divided about the entire issue. The merpeople would never know.)

Draco Malfoy shouldn't have been noticeable against all that gold and rushing water, but he knew the signs. Knew them since his first year at Hogwarts, actually, though he hadn't minded the attention then. Craved it and sought after it, then. Here though, the shifted glances, the blank stares, the sudden frowns - he knew his status among these people, and it wasn't good.

Wouldn't have even had to go down as far as Magical Maintenance and pass by this place if it wasn't for those stares at lunch hour. The silence when he entered a busy break room was quite a deterrent. As a trainee in his department, it wasn't like they were assigned offices or desks, or even a chair (until they'd proven themselves worthy), so a working lunch was out.

Not that he _wanted_ to eat with them, anyway. Better no company than bad company.

A quiet alcove with a bench, he'd found, suited his needs adequately.

People seemed to think that he'd been humbled, and while it was true - he'd been humbled into the dirt - few seemed to understand exactly when such had occurred. Most assumed that he'd had to reevaluate his priorities after the Dark Lord's death, when the war was won. Few knew that the moment he'd truly had to come to grips with his status in the world was far before the war got serious.

" _Young Malfoy!" the high, cold voice sounded across the hall._

 _Draco felt the blood drain from his face, and with his aunt's hiss to stand up straight nipping at his ear, he stepped forward before the cloaked figure, his pulse beating hard in his ears. "My Lord?" he rasped, disgusted at the quaver in his voice, but unable to help it._

" _Young Draco Malfoy," the voice continued, as if it were the most amusing thing in the world. "Are you of age?"_

" _No, my Lord."_

" _Scion of a disgraced line, it would seem. Well, I think I might have the right task for you to prove your manhood. Your father cannot act, but continually disgraces himself - and me - time and time again. Perhaps he did not have the proper motivation…Narcissa!"_

 _Draco's heart dropped into his shoes. There was nothing he could do but watch as his mother stepped forward, beside him. She dared not touch him where Voldemort could see, but he felt the support in her presence._

" _Come forward, Narcissa," Voldemort murmured. "Next to me - generally the part of your sister, no?"_

 _Narcissa moved forward, and if there was hesitation in her step, Draco could not see it. As she drew near to Voldemort, he twirled his wand, ever so casually, to aim at her throat._

" _Draco, I have a task for you," Voldemort said easily. "I need someone with access to Hogwarts to do this for me - and do it well. Succeed, and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest imaginations. Fail…" and here, the wand poked Narcissa's pale throat, leaving a scorch mark across her pearly skin. "…and the Malfoy line must end here. Your mother will stay here with me - insurance that you will perform with…proper motivation. I daresay this task will prove a greater test of your skills than any…what are they called now? OWLs?"_

 _A chorus of sycophantic laughter joined the Dark Lord's shrill howl. Draco strained to hear anything over the buzzing in his ears._

Draco had known exactly what his position was in the world at that moment.

His connections with people of status were mostly gone, and he could not find it within himself to walk around the wizarding world with an apology in his step. His pride would let him take this change in status and earn what respect he could - but it would not allow him to grovel. He was what he was - this far and no further.

It was with relief that he passed through the doors into the Magical Law Enforcement Department, right into the grudging toleration of his division. He was greeted by a small man whose thick, bristly moustache and shiny bald head gave him the appearance of a friendly sea lion, pushing his way through a row of desks to reach him.

"Malfoy! Back early! That's good, I need someone to go out with me on this case!" Odo Oddsbodds bounded to his side, a dynamo of energy despite his deceptively portly stature, lime green porkpie hat perched jauntily over his bald head. "Breaking and entering at a shop in Diagon Alley! Time to put those skills to work, my boy!"

Despite his irritating habit of calling Draco "boy" or "lad," he didn't really mind Oddsbodds that much. The wizard was an accepting sort, and cared more about his work than he did about inter-office politics. There was nothing grudging about Oddsbodds, unless it was when the evidence couldn't point him in the direction of a possible suspect.

He often got the feeling that Oddsbodds regarded him as a student of more than investigations.

 _They were in a pub in Ottery St. Catchpole, examining the blood spatter-patterns on the rough wooden walls. The pub was oddly quiet, the air a nauseating blend of sour beer, sweat, cheap perfume, tobacco, with an nauseating undernote of vomit. An ugly brawl, he'd gathered, between a Pureblood and a Muggleborn, both of whom had endured much during the war, both of whom were now recovering in St. Mungo's. Either that or Quidditch rivalries – but really, what did it matter at this point?_

 _Their job was to determine how the fight had happened - witness accounts seemed to be biased in favor of one or the other, with no one agreeing on the circumstances. Assault charges would be filed, undoubtedly - but who was the aggressor - and who was fighting in self-defense?_

" _But that's all right," Oddsbodds said, squatting down to examine the "cast-off" that had dried into a jagged dark brown spatter on the pub stool. He ran his finger across the bristles of his thick grey moustache. "We can sort it out ourselves. The evidence will speak more clearly than a room full of pub patrons claiming to have been too sloshed to see anything."_

 _He stopped, considering the glowing dartboard, and pointed his wand at it, causing the dot of the bullseye to expand rapidly before Oddsbodds gave a lazy flick of his wrist. "Rigged. I'll inform the manager."_

 _Draco eyed the bloody mess with distaste, taking care where he stepped and what he brushed against. Who cared who struck first? They were both idiots in his eyes. This seemed futile to him - it all looked the same color, and there was no way to be sure whose blood belonged to whom._

" _We can figure out how the blood flew, sure," Draco said, squatting down next to Oddsbodds. "But where do we go from there? It all looks the same - this blood could belong to any-" he broke off suddenly, aware of what he was saying._

 _He risked a glance up, and saw Oddsbodds giving him a knowing glance, before holding up a sample kit._

" _We take samples, and work on it in the lab, my boy," he said kindly._

 _Whatever beliefs he'd held about blood and status - the ones that Voldemort hadn't already shattered during those two years of terror - died that day._

"Do I need anything?" he asked, falling into step with the shorter man.

"Just your wand and your keen mind!" Oddsbodds replied blithely, as they passed through the office. A few people looked up in annoyance at his enthusiasm. Many of them veterans of the Second Wizarding War, they regarded Oddsbodds' fascination with reconstructing the scene of a crime with faint revulsion. They were the ones who actually caught the wrongdoers, after all.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco caught sight of Harry Potter, and thanked his admittedly spotty luck that he saw as little of The Boy Who Lived as was possible, given that they worked in the same department. Potter was bent over a desk, scratching notes on a map, and Draco looked away so as not to get his attention. Potter's hatred he could bear - his pity would have been intolerable. The occasional acknowledgement of the other's existence was fine – along with the knowledge that Potter would always be the _Boy_ who Lived, never the _Man_. Petty, but satisfying.

Oddsbodds was just about to disapparate when Draco caught his attention. "Sir? Where in Diagon Alley are we going?"

"Dungo's Apothecary," the little man replied, and winked out with a pop like a soap bubble. Draco followed.

Hippocrates Dungo's Chemistry in Diagon Alley was not the most popular chemistry in the area. That special honor was reserved for Pedgog's Potent Potions and Bobbin's Discount Chemistry Shop. Location probably had more to do with it than anything, Draco thought, noting the shop's distance from the hub of Diagon Alley traffic. The shop's decrepit appearance couldn't help matters, either - the shop looked more like a shack than a clean and safe chemistry. There was a layer of hazy grime across the windows, a rain gutter swung listlessly from the roof, the front stoop was missing several bricks, and the thatched roof needed repairs badly, looking rather like Potter's hair on a windy day.

"Was that damage there before or after the break-in?" Draco asked, pointing up at the gutter. Oddsbodds followed his direction and peered up as well.

"Not sure…I generally go to Pedgog's, myself. That's why we ask questions!" Oddsbodds said cheerily, pausing at the stoop to compose himself before using his wand to make the door swing open ahead of them.

Stepping inside, Draco looked around for anything obviously out of place. The interior was just as dingy and depressing as the exterior, smelling faintly of menthol and damp. Most of the bottles of healing lotions and potions on the overcrowded shelves had a fine layer of dust clinging to them, dingy in the bright light of midday. The shop catered more to the ill than to those wishing to stay well, so there was a distinct lack of brightly-colored Vitalius Solutions and health potions, and an overabundance of opaque solutions with dull yellow labels. Even the rack of get-well cards looked pale and anemic in the afternoon sunlight.

Beside him, Oddsbods seemed to be having similar thoughts, judging by his poker-faced evaluation of the store. He cleared his throat gruffly. "Mr. Dungo?" he called out. "This is Investigator Oddsbodds with Magical Law Enforcement. We were called in for the report of a break-in."

There was some shuffling from the back of the store. Finally, an old wizard stepped out, hobbling forward in a stumbling walk as his threadbare green robes rippled around and tangled about his legs. He resembled nothing so much as a turtle to Draco's eyes, watery red eyes, wrinkled little neck poking out of his robes, bald head with taut sweaty skin. He stopped short, seeming to sway on his feet.

"Thank you," he wheezed. "Not sure if they've…if they've…" Dungo broke off, his gaze caught by the light on a shiny set of potion ladles.

"If they've stolen anything?" Draco finished for him impatiently. Oddsbodds shot him a look.

"Yes," Dungo said absently, his gaze still fixed on the shine.

"Perhaps you can take us to where the person or persons broke in?" Oddsbodds prompted Dungo, kindly.

"Oh! Yes." Dungo tore his gaze away from the ladles and turned around, walking back into the shop. Oddsbodds gave Draco a reproving glance, and they trailed afterward.

They reached the back of the shop, and Dungo showed them where the doorknob had been blown open. Scorch marks scarred the doorframe. Draco held up a hand to the marks, feeling the echo of anger sparking against his skin. Dark magic – though they could verify that in other ways.

"What kind of wards did you have up?" Oddsbodds said, examining the scorch marks.

"Oh, the usual…" Dungo stared off into the distance, and Draco finally got a clear look into his eyes. They were bloodshot, and so dilated they looked like black holes in his skull.

"Mr. Dungo?" he asked. "Mr. Dungo, are you all right?"

He snapped his fingers in front of the older man's face. Dungo blinked. Oddsbodds looked up, interested.

"Mr. Dungo, how many fingers am I holding up?" he asks, extending three in front of Dungo's bulbous nose.

"…six?" Dungo mumbled, as if he wasn't quite sure of the answer.

"Mr. Dungo, have you been drugged? Have you been hurt?" Draco asked, though he was pretty certain of the answer.

"I don't…"

"I think we need to get you to St. Mungo's, Mr. Dungo," Oddsbodds said briskly.

"Well, all right, then," Dungo said affably. Oddsbodds extended a hand and gripped Dungo's elbow. Draco hesitated for a fraction of a second, then followed his example, gripping the soiled robes around Dungo's elbow, and helped guide him to a sooty fireplace inside the store.

"Just a moment, Mr. Dungo. I'll Floo over with you, but I need to call someone to help Draco investigate." Draco chafed at this - he was perfectly capable of securing a crime scene and doing an initial examination - he'd worked several initial examinations solo so far during his training in the department.

Oddsbodds grasped a bit of Floo powder in one hand, knelt down before the grate, and, throwing it in, shouted "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes!" before sticking his head down into the glowing embers.

Draco scowled - he wasn't aware of any Weasley that worked in the Auror office - nor was he keen on working with any of the ginger brood.

Beside him, Dungo stared off into the distance, drooling slightly, humming what sounded like Muggle jazz.

Oddsbodds spent a few more minutes talking to someone at Wheezes, then climbed back out, brushing soot from his shoulders.

"I think I'll Side-Along with Dungo here and see if we can find out what he's been affected by," he said, turning to Draco, and taking hold of Dungo's elbow again. "I've called in the swing shift trainee to give you a hand inventorying this place. Think you may have quite a job here." Oddsbodds' gaze swung to encompass the entire overcrowded shop.

Draco fought to keep the grimace off of his face. He _hated_ group work – absolutely detested it. As one of the better students in his year, he was highly sought after for homework help, a fact that flattered him until he realized that his work was being used by other students as their own. Malfoys didn't let anyone steal the glory that was rightly theirs.

From then on, he far preferred working by himself, or with lackeys who could pick up the busy work. Crabbe and Goyle submitted to this willingly enough until they'd had to spend a good deal of their sixth year as little girls. The Death Eaters could provide muscle to get him to the tower – everything else he'd been able to coerce or arrange to his liking. He'd chosen Investigations partly because Investigators mostly worked by themselves in the field.

"Mr. Oddsbodds, sir, who..?" Draco trailed off. "Who should I expect?"

"Miss Hermione Granger," Oddsbodds called over his shoulder. "I believe you were acquainted back at Hogwarts?"

Draco nodded jerkily. He'd forgotten that Granger was working in Investigations as well, though because she was on another shift, they rarely ran into each other. Which was as well, he thought. She seemed the type to forgive…but never to forget.

The last time he'd seen her, she was being swallowed up in the embrace of Potter and an untold number of rodent-like gingers after they had both finished up their schooling. With no one to congratulate _him_ , he'd palmed a handful of biscuits from the refreshment tables, charmed his trunk to float after him, and sped down the path to Hogsmeade as quickly as he could move without appearing to run.

It wasn't until he'd glanced back, about to Apparate away, when he realized that this would likely be the last time he'd ever see the place.

He turned back a moment, hands gripping the hard iron gates, sliding down in a loose hold. He'd hated his time here, true. Incompetent teachers, Mudbloods, Perfect Potter, and dangerous creatures in his younger years. Orders to kill, orders to torture, and the betrayal of friends in his later years. A few moments of glory here and there – but overall, an unfortunate place to come of age in. Sometimes he wondered how he would have fared in Durmstrang.

"I'll be back as soon as I am able," Oddsbodds called behind him, leading Dungo out the door and past the wards. "Please fill Miss Granger in on the details. I think she said she'd be walking over."

"Yes, sir."

When Oddsbodds and Dungo finally disapparated, Draco let his shoulders slump, and a long sigh tore its way out of him. Just the way he'd hoped to spend his afternoon. Granger might not have deserved the Mudblood taunts he'd thrown her way during school - but she'd deserved the ones about being a bossy swot.

He wondered idly if there was a painkiller there that he could take before Granger arrived - something to stave off the headache that she would inevitably cause by claiming the case as her own.


	2. Chapter 2

"Malfoy?" 

He hadn't expected uncertainty from _her_ , but there it was. Hermione Granger stood silhouetted in the bright sunshine streaming through the doorframe of Dungo's Chemistry, looking as if she thought she was intruding on something private. The trait he'd come to associate most with her, her bushy hair, was neatly plaited back along her neck and down her back. "Oddsbodds said to help you?" 

Confidence was a garb he'd been wearing from an early age. Like armor, he donned it at all times, secure in its posture of folded arms, wide stance, lifted chin. Unlike armor, however, it took great concentration to keep this garb from floating away in the face of shock or humiliation. He donned it now. 

Granger looked much the same as she had when they'd both attended their last year of Hogwarts, the Wizarding War behind them. Her face had lost its girlish roundness, had settled into more adult angles, something that he figured happened on that hellish year when he'd been trying to be invisible and she'd been running for her life and her friends. 

Like most of the female Aurors, Granger eschewed jewelry, and preferred boots to heels. Unlike the Aurors, who needed the extra fabric to conceal what they might be carrying and to blend in with the crowd, she preferred dark trousers and shirts. The billowing fabric of regular robes could brush against items in a crime scene, taint the evidence. Granger wore no pointed hat, which Draco considered odd, since that mark of status was something he thought she'd flaunt. Her eyes, as always, seemed to take in and evaluate everything, including himself. 

"Yes," he replied. Granger seemed to consider this word for a moment, then take it as her invitation, and stepped across the creaking floorboards over to him, a large camera in her hand. 

He wondered what she was waiting for - for him to start shouting insults, or to start telling him what to do, perhaps? 

"Dungo reported a break-in around lunch," he said, breaking the silence. "Oddsbodds and I got here, and I realized that he was drugged. He didn't seem to know if anything had been taken. Oddsbodds said for us to inventory the place and see if anything is missing." 

"You realized?" He bristled at this, but Granger didn't seem to be mocking him. She seemed instead to be regarding him a bit strangely, as if getting his measure. This was going to test every ounce of his sorely tried patience. 

"Yes. Anyway, we can split the list and start looking." 

"Or we could cut our time and look behind the counter," Granger said, already turning to the glass counter at the front of the store. "Most chemists keep their money and any controlled substances back here. It's unlikely someone would go to this much trouble for essence of dittany or a get-well card." 

Less than a minute. Less than _one_ minute, and he could already feel his cheeks draining of blood in anger, the pangs of a headache at his temple. 

"That's what this list is," he bluffed, walking over and hastily turning a page, hoping she wouldn't see. "List of all the controlled substances Dungo had…not that there seems to be much." 

**_DUNGO CHEMISTRY LICENSED CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES_**

 ** _With official signed permission from a St. Mungo's Healer or other United Kingdom board-certified healer, Hippocrates Hibblewith Dungo is licensed to dispense the following substances in controlled amounts:_**

 ** _Class D Controlled Substances:_**

 ** _Dragon Toenail Powder - Five grams per patient, per month_**

 ** _South American Freshwater Plimpy Hearts - Three hearts per patient, per month_**

 ** _Syrup of Greek Lotus - One dram per patient, per two months_**

 ** _Sargasso Sea Serpent Fangs (crushed) - Ten grams per patient, per prescription_**

 ** _Opiate of Poppy seed - dispense as directed by healer_**

 ** _Edelweiss Juice - One-half dram per patient, per three months_**

 ** _Class E Controlled Substances:_**

 ** _Boomslang Skin - ¼ gram per patient (not to be purchased in conjunction with bicorn horn)_**

 ** _Bicorn Horn - ½ gram per patient (not to be purchased in conjunction with boomslang skin)_**

 ** _Mashed Rattlesnake Plantain - Three drams per patient_**

 ** _Dried Cannabis Leaf - Five grams per patient_**

As she examined the list, Draco tapped his hands with a silent _Impervius_ , letting him touch the scene safely. A pearlescent glow emitted from his skin, and a check of Granger's slender fingers showed that she'd already done so. 

A loud pop and a flash of light meant that she'd taken a picture of the glass cases, unbroken and untouched behind the counter. "The Class E substances seem to be all here - row's full," Granger spoke, as Draco examined the till, finding it still in good order - though with few enough galleons, sickles, and knuts in their individual drawers. "I guess he might have some in his back storeroom." 

"Probably," Draco replied equably, hoping that she'd keep to the matter at hand. "Till doesn't seem to have been touched." 

Granger made a noise that might have been disapproval or acknowledgement. "Looks like some Greek Lotus is gone - any recent purchases?" 

Draco tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he pawed through the ledger. "Knotgrass…flutterby seed…here we are, two grams of Greek Lotus Syrup?" 

"That's it," said Granger, sounding disappointed. More lights flashed, and Draco finally tugged the camera away from her, ostensibly to photograph the till, but more to keep her from setting off the flash in his face. 

He grimaced at a sudden thought – would he have to take separate pictures of all the things she'd photographed? He refused to rely on her for anything more than he already had. They found enchanted keys for the cabinets, opening them up to do a more thorough examination. 

They continued their search behind the counter, and he felt uncomfortably aware of the rustle of her robes beside him, the nearness of someone who despised him (and who wasn't shy about expressing her displeasure with him). Granger, he remembered, was good at witty retorts - almost as good as he, back in his heyday. Nowadays, he felt dulled and at a constant disadvantage, as if the razor edge of his personality was chipped and broken from having to knuckle under. 

Perhaps if he could get her talking about something, she'd forget that it was him…and would perhaps leave the investigation in his hands. 

"Why did Oddsbodds know to find you at Wheezes?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence. 

Draco heard her pause as she shifted tiny clinking vials and bottles, and watched the movement of her face in the reflection of the glass cabinet doors. "Ron works there - kind of to keep George company, you know." 

No, he didn't know. Well, he'd heard of Fred Weasley's death, but not of Ron's employment at the joke shop. Nor of Granger's relationship with the Weasel, implied by the slight gleam in her eye, the blush on her cheekbones. 

"I generally have lunch with the two of them, so Oddsbodds knew to find me there," she concluded, and the second pause made Draco aware that she'd turned to get a look at his expression. He turned quickly and maintained a fixed gaze in counting the vials of mashed rattlesnake plantain. 

"Ah." 

"I take it you have day shift?" she asked, and he got the feeling that she was just as uncomfortable with the situation as he was. At least _that_ put them on equal footing. 

"Yes…just coming back from lunch myself when- hang on-" 

Granger turned to look at him in interest, but he'd already stood up, looking at the door. "Look at that - the sign on the door says that it's closed." 

"So?" 

Draco turned around, exiting the counter and walking up to the listed hours of operation. "Look - Dungo's old hours used to be from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. - no lunch break. But he's crossed them out and now he opens at 12 p.m." 

Granger frowned. "Maybe he can't keep up with business?" 

"Then he'd hire extra help," Draco replied, growing excited at this potential new turn in the case. "But from the amount in that till, I can't imagine business is all that good." He frowned, remembering Dungo's bloodshot eyes. "You don't suppose…maybe he's abusing potions? Some of them can't get up in the morning so well anymore." 

Potions abuse had always been a problem in the wizarding world, though generally less so than St. Mungo's liked to extemporize on. Draco could remember seedy corners and alcoves in Knockturn Alley where dealers would linger, waiting to dole out potions ingredients for exorbitant prices. 

Use of such potions had skyrocketed, however, after the war's end. Grieving family members and spouses sought to forget their pain and losses with several illicit potions, growing addicted to the numbing sensation of Catatonius Concoctions and Essence of Ecstasius. Invented for psychiatric care, the potions allowed the user to shut out the pain of the present, exist in an anesthetized cocoon in which the past couldn't touch them. 

More than a few crime scenes that Draco accompanied Oddsbodds to bore traces of potions abuse. Since the potion recipe was restricted knowledge, brewers guessed at the ingredients with varying degrees of success, putting both them and those they sold to in danger. Except in the case of dealers and brewers, the Ministry turned a forgiving eye, paroling the abusers out with mandatory counseling sessions. 

"Dungo did lose a brother, I think," Granger began uncertainly. "He would have access to some of the key ingredients…" 

"Personal stash, you think?" Draco said, nearly biting his tongue at the end of the sentence. Since when did he care what she thought? "Or maybe he's dealing it as well?" 

"Maybe," she replied, biting her lip, carefully not looking at him. "Does he live above the store?" 

"I think so," Draco muttered. " _Lumos!"_

He marched into the back storerooms, looking for a staircase or a bedroom, his wand held alit before him. Behind him, he could hear Granger's quiet step. 

"There we are," he said, pointing his wand at a well-used slouching chair, several empty and stained beakers balanced precariously on its armrests. Even from there, his nose pricked and wrinkled at the syrupy-sweet scent coming off of them - no mistaking _that_ odor. 

"Familiar sight?" 

He'd been waiting for it, and here it was - though, surprisingly, it was not about his family, his actions, his switch to her side, or the tattoo he kept hidden on his arm. 

"No, as a matter of fact," he snarled, taking pleasure in the sharp jerk of her head towards him, the widened eyes. "Whatever else you lot might think I'm guilty of, potions abuse isn't on the list." Hermione's face, however, fell back into composed lines, except for her eyebrows, which lifted at him in what might have been amusement. 

"Actually, I meant your work on the Catatonius bust in Hogsmeade," she said, strolling with a casual air towards the cabinet near the chair. "Oddsbodds was bragging on you." 

Oh. He felt his face flush, and wondered if she'd made that up just to confound him. 

Granger looked as if she were debating broaching the subject, but decided against it. Instead, she opened the cabinet. 

"Ugh!" she exclaimed, screwing up her features into a moue of distaste at the smell. The cabinet was stuffed to the brim with the ingredients for Catatonius Concoctions. "Well, at least we know whoever broke in wasn't after that." 

"Do you…" Draco began, and cleared his throat. Granger closed the cabinet door and faced him, fanning the air about her face. "Do you think whoever broke in was aware of Dungo's habit? Timed their break-in for when he'd be sacked out here? He looked like a regular Catatonius addict, now that I think about it." 

"Maybe," Granger said, now looking about the room. "Think he had anything valuable hidden around here? It doesn't look like whoever broke in was after potions ingredients or money." 

Draco shrugged diffidently, glad to forget the tension that had been there a minute ago. "We can always ask him again when he's in his right mind." 

Granger nodded thoughtfully, raising the camera to her eyes to take a few pictures of the chair, the beakers, the full cabinet. "Where did they break in?" 

"Back door." He nodded towards the area, and together they walked over to examine the flimsy door. Draco trailed a finger in the scorched grooves, then hastily pulled it back, rubbing it against his robes. 

"Dark magic," he said, rubbing finger and thumb against one another. Granger's trusty camera captured the images, but fell away from her face to reveal wide eyes. "This suddenly got much more interesting." 

"I don't know about Dark magic, but that's a lot of force and effort for something that must be very small," Granger said, sounding worried. She brushed past him to get a few more pictures from different angles. "The suspect got through the wards…somehow. I'd think the wards around a chemist's shop would be pretty strong…" 

"Unless Old Dungo's been letting things slide as of late," Draco interjected. "His shop is out of the way, wouldn't attract much attention, and from the state of things inside, whatever's missing could go missing for days without being noticed." 

"Who goes to the trouble of using Dark magic to break into a shop in Diagon Alley and doesn't take anything?" They contemplated her question for a moment. "We could go back and look through regular inventory. It's possible that someone had a really bad headache and couldn't wait for Dungo to open…" 

"No," Draco replied, twisting his lips. "We're missing something. Something small. Something that this person thought Dungo would miss - either because his head's three meters off the ground, or because it's something he wouldn't look for right away…" 

He went back to the counter, trying to take it all in at once, see if anything was amiss. This was a task performed with much greater ease in neat and orderly homes. Behind Dungo's counter, however, things were terribly messy, though in an organic way, an arrangement that spoke more of a distracted mind than of a thief intent on finding something. Draco prowled from shelf to shelf, acutely aware of the fact that Granger was watching him instead of the scene. 

He almost missed it - the corner of a parchment envelope, jammed underneath the till. He beckoned to Granger to take a picture before he carefully extracted it, examining the stamp and embossment on its front. 

"See the rip? The smudged fingerprints?" he said excitedly. "I think this must have been what the suspect was after. Good chemists - or at least ones that have been at it for a while - always wash their hands before going to work." 

He thumbed the envelope over, looking for something, some hint of what might have been inside - an explanatory letter, a bill or an invoice… 

Nothing. 

Piqued, Draco slapped it back down on the counter, swearing under his breath. Hermione mirrored his disappointment. They were still rookies, he knew, apt to get excited and think they could solve a case within the hour. 

He started at the feel of Granger's fingers upon his own, and whipped his head to look over at her. But no, she was pushing his hand to the side to get a better look at the writing on the envelope. 

**Department for the Regulation and Control of Potions Ingredients**

 **Ministry of Magic**

 **To:**

 **Hippocrates Hibblewith Dungo**

 **Dungo's Chemistry**

 **Number 52, Diagon Alley**

 **Re: Licensure and Procurement**

"Malfoy, you were right!" she exclaimed. "This _is_ it!" 

There were four words he'd never thought to come out of her mouth. 

"What is what?" 

"This is the thing that's missing - his licensure!" 

"So?" 

"Identity theft!" Granger cried. 

"Sorry?" 

"You know, when you steal someone's identity and pretend to be them, so that you can steal from them." 

"All the restricted Polyjuice Potion ingredients are accounted for, Granger." 

"No, not that!" She looked slightly flushed and excited, and he idly wondered if he looked the same way when he had a lead. "It's common among Muggle criminals. In the Department for the Regulation and Control of Potions Ingredients, you need proper clearance to order the restricted stuff - so they know they're not giving it to dealers, or to people who don't know how to distribute it properly. You need a license. I bet whoever broke in took this and is using the license to order a big shipment of some controlled items right now! Why bother with the little bit Dungo's got here when they can use his license to get a lot?" 

"Are you sure?" 

"No," she admitted, tearing her gaze from the envelope to look him in the eyes. "But it makes the most sense. Someone who knows Dungo came in here with the intent of just getting that license - and supposing that Dungo would be too out of it to realize for a while that they were making purchases in his name." 

Draco frowned. It would make sense for a chemist to dabble in illicit potions on the side, for some extra money…it could even explain his ability to open later in the day. "Someone? Either Dungo's dealer…or someone he was supplying - who decided to cut out the middleman." 

Granger grimaced. "It's the difference between a Class W and a Class Y felony, and they carry some serious differences in penalties. Unless there were some mitigating circumstances, like if his life had been threatened, or if there was a criminal information exchange of any kind, it might qualify under…" 

Draco decided to cut her off before she recited the entire law book to him. 

"Has anyone ever told you that you are an insufferable know-it-all?" 

"Ron and Harry. Twice daily, each. I don't pay attention to them, either." 

She shot him a smirk, which he returned with a glare. 

"Anyway," he said, brushing past her. "I'm going to contact Oddsbodds. That license needs to be watched, so we can see what's being ordered and where it's being shipped to." 

"We'll contact him together." She stepped forward quickly, and Draco felt the argument coming. 

"No we won't. It's my case - you were brought on as unnecessary help. I can do this _on my own_." He tried on a sneer, which, he was gratified to note, hadn't lost any of its trademark effect. Granger pursed her lips in annoyance, the calm that she'd been displaying previously ebbing away. 

" _Unnecessary!_ You wouldn't have connected the dots without my help!" 

"I already found the envelope," he said, dismissing her objection with a wave of his hand. "I connected the dots and found out about Dungo's addiction and the Dark magic used to open the door. Matter of time." 

"A matter of about a month, you mean," she shot back, eyes blazing. Draco fought against the instinct to back up a step and shield his face. "By which time the suspect and whatever he wanted to take using Dungo's license would be long gone!" 

"Is there a problem, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy?" 

In a curiously coordinated movement, Malfoy felt his head turn at the same time Granger did to look back at the hallway. Slightly sooty, an enigmatic expression on his face, Oddsbodds watched them. Draco wondered how long he'd been standing there. 

"No, sir," he said. Granger shook her head. 

"I take it that you have some leads on the case?" 

"Yes!" They answered as one, and Draco felt that Granger was struggling just as hard not to glare at him as he was at her. 

Oddsbodds spread wide a hand. "Lead on." 


	3. Chapter 3

Oddsbodds alerted the Auror Office from Dungo's fireplace. In the next few minutes it took the three of them to collect all the physical evidence and Floo over to the department, there was a considerable charge to the atmosphere. From the spare room where Draco and Granger sorted collected evidence in thick silence, he could look up and see the Aurors drumming their fingers, waiting for the Department of Regulation and Control of Potions Ingredients. The trace of Dark magic used to blow the door open was unusual, and the Aurors hadn't much of a chance to chase after Dark wizards in some weeks.

Inside the evidence room, the environment was less charged with energy than it was with animosity. Granger's overly thick lettering on the evidence labels hinted at some strong inner feeling that she was biting back. Draco chose to sit at the other end of the long table.

"Miss Granger, I have an idea that I'd like to present to you, and I hope you'll agree with me that it's a good one," Oddsbodds said.

"Certainly, sir," she said, and Draco was strongly reminded of her immaculate posture and rigid attention in every class he'd ever sat in with her. He was half-surprised not to see her hand in the air.

"It concerns your scheduling - I'd like you to move from swing to day shift - the caseload change would benefit you, and you'd get better hours," Oddsbodds said, smiling.

Draco struggled to compose his features. Bumping her to day shift meant he'd have to take her swing shift - the less advantageous one. He saw her eyes flicker briefly in his direction and realized that she'd come to the same conclusion.

"I would love to, sir," she said, smiling pleasantly, almost nastily, Draco thought morosely. Leave it to Granger to show him up and screw him over in the last place he'd felt competent and strong.

"Excellent! You and Mr. Malfoy work so well together, it would be a shame to separate you. I should add as well, that it will be far easier on me to have my trainees together."

Draco could almost have laughed at the expression on Granger's face - but for the cold sinking of his stomach. Work was the one place he felt as if he had - if not the upper hand, at least someone who saw his strengths and recognized them. Granger the Genius would suck all the air out of the room.

He screwed up his face into a placid expression, watching Oddsbodds' face carefully for signs of amusement. The little man only smiled faintly as he watched the expressions play across their faces.

"Miss Granger, you can work out the rest of the weekend on swing shift, then transfer to the day shift on Monday," he instructed.

Oddsbodds left the office, and Draco could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smirk on the Investigator's face.

The silence was as thick as tar. Finally, a few minutes later, Granger began shuffling evidence around again, and Draco took that as his cue to keep working on his.

There was no help for it. With growing fury at his situation in life, he stared out the window at the Aurors, who were trying to look busy, but who kept staring at the department entrance every few seconds.

Finally, several paper airplanes zoomed into the department, aiming for the enforcement Aurors, who leaped up, wands at the ready. Draco watched with interest as they marched past the glass windows of the office, not a one looking in.

"Well, whether it's your case or mine, or both of ours, it doesn't really matter," Granger said behind him. He glanced back at her, but she was watching the Aurors. "They'll get the credit for the case, not us."

She had a point. No matter who pointed them in the right direction, just as with Seekers, Aurors would get the credit

for the capture.

"Look, Malfoy," and he steeled himself at this, because her pity was worse than her bossiness. "I don't think I'm any happier about this than you."

"Unlikely, but by all means, keep trying."

"So…let's have a truce. Just keep your Muggleborn comments and insults to yourself, and we should work together all right."

"I don't say that shit anymore." Or believe in it, really, though he didn't say that out loud. Granger didn't blink at his crudity, a fact that he filed away for later consideration.

"I don't care if you do or don't," she replied. "Just don't say it around me."

He sighed, defeated. "Right. But remember - we're equals. You don't hold any rank over me." Not here, anyway. "So don't boss me around."

"Noted," she snapped. "See you Monday." Dropping the last case of evidence into one of the two boxes, she walked out of the room without a glance back.

Draco heaved a disgusted sigh.

* * *

Of the few Slytherins who would admit to knowing him after his defection, Blaise Zabini came by whenever he was in town. The two of them would get together at a damp pub in Hogsmeade, not drinking so much (because it brought on, rather than chased away the memories), but genuinely pleased to catch up on each other's lives.

Zabini, however, was training at the Viennese branch of Gringotts. He brought amusing stories of goblins, girls, and adventures in Muggle Vienna, but he wasn't able to bring them very often.

The nights that he didn't, Draco went to the palaestra.

Magical Law Enforcement had several offices to choose from within the department - Investigations (like Draco himself), Enforcement (like Potter), Incarceration (now that the dementors no longer guarded Azkaban), and Minor Infractions and Offenses. No matter what the office, though, they were required to keep a certain level of fitness, both in their physical condition and in their ability to track down, fight, and capture Dark wizards.

The "target practice" range was kept far away from the Ministry, for fear that all the spells bouncing around could damage or injure someone there. The palaestra, however, was open 24 hours a day in the Ministry, specifically for MLE usage, cool and quiet as a dungeon cell (though significantly less damp and with more light). Draco preferred it in the early evening hours when most other wizards and witches had gone home for supper and to spend time with their families – many preferred to get there early, or much later. More of the exercisers were clear, and he received fewer dark comments.

Most days he began with the pedambulator, running several kilometers through an enchantment that gave him the impression he was running along the coast, a stiff ocean wind at his back, cooling him (there were several versions - the rainforest was least liked as the runner would often become drenched by a sudden storm – the desert canyon, with its shaky paths and hairpin turns a close second). The weights, he'd heard, were actually quite similar to Muggle weights, although the wizard versions would take flight if one accidentally lost their grip.

He saved the swim for last, stripping down to his swimming trunks, savoring it as if easing into a warm bath.

There was a pond back at the manor, avoided by the peacocks but loved by the youngest Malfoy. Mother had been beside herself with worry until Father taught him how to swim there, struggling to keep his head above water while the clinging reeds and weeds wrapped around his ankles. Half of swimming was confidence, Father said, easily kicking away the reeds and helping his son tread water.

In the present, Draco glanced about to see if anyone was watching, then bounded off the diving board and sliced into the pool, enjoying the shock of cold water against his skin. He dove further, opening his eyes into the clear depths, a flashing red light letting him know that the pool had marked his entrance, and would immediately empty its contents if he stayed under for longer than a minute. He'd never really been able to dive much in the pond at home.

Irritated by the nostalgia, Draco kicked up, surfacing with a gasp, shaking the droplets from his eyelashes. The pond was probably overgrown with reeds as the manor and its grounds lay neglected, or so he assumed. He'd not been there for more than a year. The Malfoy fortune that the MLE had been able to find was confiscated.

Draco cut through the water cleanly in a backstroke, alone in the big pool, and wondered where his parents were nowadays. 

* * *

The first few seconds of when he visited Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin were always disconcerting. Every time Andromeda opens the door, it took Draco a moment or two to remind himself that she wasn't the terror that her lookalike sister was. Every time he spied Teddy, he was newly amazed at the child's hair color.

Andromeda said that Dora often changed hair color at Teddy's age, and didn't discover the joys of rearranging her facial features until she was four or so. Draco was privately grateful for this fact – children around Teddy's age still mostly looked alike to him, with the exception of gender and various colorings. On Teddy, this could mean aquamarine hair in the morning, and a nauseating ginger head in the evening.

Whenever he was around Draco, however, this meant that he mimicked his second cousin's white-blond hair. Logically, Draco knew that this was probably just Teddy's way of learning to morph. Sentimentally, though, it felt as if the toddler was welcoming him to the family, a way of illustrating their familial bond. Draco never thought he'd have much patience for the very young, but he could never deny Teddy.

"Draco! Come in!" Draco stepped through the door into the Tonks kitchen, where he caught the strong aroma of mashed carrots and peas.

"Meda," he greeted her. Andromeda had once been a happy and contented woman – there was still some spark left in her eyes from the old days. Her husband had been at her side, her daughter pink-haired and pregnant, married to a werewolf. At least, that was what Draco had been told. He'd never known her in those days, never met her when she'd been cut off from the rest of the Black family, and utterly content.

As it was so often in the Tonks household, people's moods were identified by their hair color. Andromeda, once blessed with the thick dark hair shared by Bellatrix, now braided back tresses that were starkly white. Draco wondered if her hair had gone white from the shock of losing her family in the war, or if it had happened at some earlier point. He'd heard a rumor that she'd been Cruciated, but could never find the right way to bring it up in conversation.

"Dray-co!" Teddy burbled happily, racing unsteadily across the kitchen floor on his chubby feet. Draco felt himself smile for what felt like the first time that week, scooping the wiggling little boy up into his arms. Within seconds, Teddy's hair seemed to change from a light brown to a white-blond. "Hey, Teddy."

"Good," called Andromeda from across the room, where she was siphoning up splotches of mashed vegetables with her wand and directing them into the bin. "Maybe you can keep him from tossing half of his snack across the room."

"Vegetables for a snack? Who wants that?" he said, making a face at Teddy, who giggled in response. From across the room Andromeda glared at him, and he grinned roguishly in return. Carrying Teddy back to his high chair, he settled the young boy in it and reached for a spoon. "Unless it's carried by broom, that is."

"Broom!" Teddy called out. "Broom, broom, broom!"

"Broom," he confirmed, scooping up some of the mashed carrot. "Here it comes! The Chasers are aiming for the goal! Oh, no! The Keeper deflects, and Slytherin intercepts!"

Instead of pushing the spoon into Teddy's mouth, he spun it around and ate the mashed carrot instead, trying hard not to choke. "Meda, I'm not sure I blame him. Think I'd throw it across the room, too."

"Oh, don't encourage him," she scowled. "There's entirely too much Black in him and not enough Tonks or Lupin." Her face became rigid, then, and she turned away from Draco, busying herself with the teakettle. He let her, taking the spoon and trying to aim a few mouthfuls of mashed vegetables in Teddy's direction. Teddy had other ideas after a few successful goals, and Draco found himself gagging as he tried to swallow the concoction and entice his cousin's interest.

He'd spent a lonely semester at Hogwarts after the war, his mother and father already gone, when he first received an owl from Andromeda.

 _I know we've never met,_ she wrote, _and I know that probably everything you've heard about me is unpleasant. But we're family, Draco, and there's no reason to have an empty house at Christmas when I've still got some family left._

In truth, he had known very little of Andromeda's existence until his teenage years – Mother and Father had not thought the topic a fit one for open discussion. But he could spend a miserable Christmas with Peeves and a school body that hated him, or he could try this.

Andromeda, surprisingly, had been a Slytherin as well. The way Mother spoke of her, he felt she must have been a Gryffindor, a disappointment and a scandal from the get-go. She knew what it was to be hounded by others for her choices, having been an outcast in her house when she started dating Ted Tonks, and a stranger to his family. It was Andromeda who taught him the skill of selective hearing, the ability to shut out the insults in order to get to where she wanted to be. Where she was now was something entirely different, he noted. She'd gone against the grain and ended up with nearly her entire family dead.

"How is work?" she asked, in a slightly strangled voice, pouring the steaming water into cups. The little cottage that she had moved into after the war was light and airy, a contrast to her overwhelming grief, and bursting to the seams with small, colorful child's toys on the floor. Draco often felt that Andromeda did certain things to balance herself out, attempting to force herself into normality for Teddy's sake.

"All right," Draco replied, fighting the urge to upchuck. "Solved an interesting case of a break-in where nothing appeared to be taken."

"Hm?"

"Chemist was addicted to potions," he explained, twirling the spoon around in midair and trying to make the toddler eat some of the paste. "He woke up and found that his shop had been broken into – but we couldn't find anything taken. Then we realized someone had his license – they were going to use it to purchase the restricted ingredients in bulk. Someone's got a big operation of illegal potions going on."

Teddy swallowed the mashed peas, making a face. "So that's one goal to me."

Andromeda slid his teacup over on the table, and he took a grateful sip, washing the vegetable taste out of his mouth. She didn't smile at his news, but she didn't smile at much that wasn't directly related to Teddy. He wondered, once again, if this was a change that had come over her since the war, or if she had been like that before.

"Harry mentioned something about you when he came by yesterday," she said, swirling her tea around in her cup.

"If he wants to visit at the same time I do, the answer's no," Draco said flatly.

"No!" Teddy echoed beside him. Draco nodded solemnly at the toddler while Andromeda rolled her eyes. While he knew that Potter was Teddy's godfather, and that he visited the Tonks house as well, he took care not to visit at the same time. He was irritated to think that Potter would discuss him with his aunt.

"He mentioned that you would be working with his friend, the one with the difficult name?" she asked searchingly. Draco sighed.

"Granger."

"That's not a difficult name, and it sounds a bit too masculine."

"No…it's Hermione Granger," he replied, peeved that thoughts of her would intrude on him here. "She's one of his best mates from school – ran around with him during the war doing Merlin knows what."

"And she'll be working with you?"

"Starting this Monday."

Andromeda stirred her tea, looking down into it as if she both wanted to say something and didn't dare. Draco used the silence to fly the spoon into Teddy's mouth once more, gratified to see that only a spoonful remained in his bowl.

"Her parents are Muggles, aren't they?" she asked.

Draco's shoulders slumped. "Yes, Meda."

"Are you all right with-"

"It mattered to me once," he said snappishly. "And I'll say it a thousand times more – it doesn't matter to me now. My blood was the last thing that mattered when the Dark Lord held my family hostage. What matters is that Hermione Granger is a bossy, know-it-all swot. Anything else I don't give a damn about."

"Damn!" Teddy spoke up. "Damn, damn, damn!"

Andromeda's look of surprised approval faded into one of irritation. "Just for that," she said, "you're eating his mashed peas tonight."


	4. Chapter 4

Monday came, and, unnervingly, Granger arrived at precisely the same time he did, so he lost the advantage of being able to look up as she entered, without a hint of welcome on his face. It irritated him.

"Good morning," he said, just to have the satisfaction of saying it first.

She raised an eyebrow. "Good morning."

He supposed that it was as good as it was going to get.

* * *

Draco knelt down, the better to get a look underneath the davenport. "More blood under here," he said.

He looked up, ready to stand, as Granger pulled the camera strap from her neck and passed it down to him. "Here you go," she said sweetly.

Damn it.

* * *

With Oddsbodd's approval, they cleared the assault scene and returned to the Ministry for lunch. Without a word, Hermione fished a little pail from her purse on the coat rack, magically resizing it as she turned in the direction of the MLE break room.

Draco paused, watching her go, before he sped off in the direction of his alcove in Maintenance.

* * *

"What's that look for?"

"What _look_?"

"The one that says you've found something interesting."

"I haven't found anything…but I've been thinking about what that one witness said - Winterbeard was hit in the back, but he said that they were facing each other when they fought."

"You think he was lying?"

"No, I think he was telling the truth. He was drunk, but he wasn't a liar."

"Then how-?"

"Blokes don't fight like boxers, Granger. Suppose he tried to ram Kitsbury's chest with his head-"

" _Really_?"

"I'm not saying it makes _sense_ , but in the heat of the moment - look, they could be facing each other, but if Winterbeard tried to take Kitsbury down in such a way, and Kitsbury took the opportunity to hit him in the back…"

"That actually makes sense. Though it doesn't tell us whether or not Kitsbury was in such a position because Winterbeard slugged him."

"I'm getting there. And since when do you pay attention to my looks?"

"I'm taking photographs and compiling a guide. Once I understand your patterns and emotions, I'll be able to know what you're thinking before you think it - without using Legilimency."

"Read _this_ thought, then. And feel free to use Legilimency."

* * *

Draco noticed her red eyes in the morning and her yawns on early scenes, until her coffee began to kick in. Changing shifts wasn't easy, he supposed, though this would probably prove easier with her boyfriend's hours.

Speaking of, Weasley was now more in evidence. Several times that first week, he would come to lunch, bringing with him the one-eared twin and the screechy youngest girl - who was evidently dating Potter.

The shift change worked out marvelously well for Granger in that respect, he thought. Now the Golden Trio could join up for lunch, complete with significant others and lonely relatives. He never went to the break room, but imagined the five of them sitting there, laughing, catching up on each other's days.

For the first time, he wondered what she'd told her friends about working with him. Did they laugh, sympathize with Granger about having to work with someone they all hated? Did she ferry his comments and facial expressions back to them - did they all sit back and have a good laugh?

It's what he might have done, had things gone differently during the war, he thought sourly. Then he corrected himself. Whichever side won, he'd still have been odd man out.

Every once in a while, he regretted still being there. Regretted not being with his parents, wherever they were, who would understand, with Zabini, with Parkinson, even the dull Flint. Goyle would trail behind…drifting about as the final half of _CrabbeandGoyle_ remaining.

But he'd made his choice, and for once in his life, he was going to stick with it.

* * *

There was a sharp uptick in the number of potions abuse cases, and Draco began to wonder whether there wasn't a larger connection. Where potions abuse went, both petty and major crimes were certain to follow, as addicts went to greater and greater lengths to feed their highs.

The addicts they'd found now seemed strangely peaceful, though. The same patterns in other traits applied - witches and wizards who went for the numbing joy of the Catatonius and Ecstasius were mostly those who had lost family or friends in the war, or those who had been under extraordinary trauma because of it. (The rumor around the office, Granger told him, was that the MLE had contacted Headmistress McGonagall, asking for permission to search the Hogwarts dormitories.)

Many had lost funds from their Gringotts accounts. While that was the usual pattern, what was unexpected was the fact that it was a modest amount - not a clearing-out of the vaults. Many abusers emptied their accounts, sold their valuables, dropped into debt, began stealing, all in order to supplement the habit.

The other bizarre phenomenon that seemed to crop up was the memory loss. Oddsbodds had told Draco that while the potions would make people forget, make them terribly happy for a short time, it was the memory they were chasing when they bought more, and the bad memories that they were running from. An attempt to reverse this in the first abuser had left him with an odd view of the world - he could remember nothing past his twenty-fourth birthday.

"Something else is going on," Draco muttered to himself, paging through the healer's reports on the latest abuser to lose memories.

"Yes," Granger said, not looking up from where she was looking through photos of the abuser's house and Gringotts vault. "I don't believe that these abusers are getting bad batches, either."

Another bizarre phenomenon - if he concentrated, he could actually have civil conversations with Granger.

"Obliviation, I suppose."

"Probably." Granger's voice sounded a bit strained. "It would explain why they can't recall who their dealers are - although they could be lying."

"Nah. I can spot a liar at fifty paces." He sneered at her raised eyebrow. "These people aren't liars."

"How do they remember the dealer they need to go back to, though?"

"I suppose they just reintroduce themselves every time," Draco said, flipping a page. "The memory might leave, but the addiction's still there - and the bad memories."

"I wonder if it's covering something else up," Granger murmured. "There's not a lot of payment being taken out, but suppose they're having to pay for it in another way."

Draco looked up, interested. "Such as?"

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe like Nelson Philbrick? He worked in the Portkey Authority. Maybe someone picked him so that he'd make some Portkeys for them - then Obliviated him so that he'd forget that he'd done it? The only ones we know who have been Obliviated so far are those with some real skills that could be of use to someone who needed to move quickly and quietly."

He watched as she pulled out a sheaf of parchment and noted this down.

"Unfortunately," she continued, dipping her quill in ink, "it still leaves us with nothing to go on, as to who's dealing, and what else they're up to."

"No other leads from the Auror office?" Draco questioned, scratching out the ingredients found in an exploded Essence of Ecstasius brewery in Godric's Hollow. With the Granger-Potter friendship, he felt that the Boy Wonder might let slip case details to her - things she could use to get ahead of him. "Not that they'd bother to mention it to us," he added.

He snorted, then realized that Granger had snorted in derision at exactly the same time.

It was eerie, and off-putting.


	5. Chapter 5

Now that Granger was on day shift, she began to attend the gymnasium around the same time he did.

For some reason, this made him think that she was probably getting up at about the same time he was. It was a strange notion, to think of someone falling into sync with his schedule, and at first, he wondered if she was doing it deliberately, to get him to request swing shift. The idiocy of this notion struck him a moment later, and he wondered why he'd even thought of it at all.

He didn't acknowledge her presence when she walked in, clad in loose old clothes, trainers on her feet, bushy hair tied back in a ponytail. She didn't acknowledge him, either, but went straight for the pedometer. He wasn't certain, but he thought she might have chosen the volcanic path through Hawaii to run through.

Gripping the safety bar tightly, he leaned over while running, out of the enchantment bounds, trying to sneak a glimpse of Granger. Draco found her, running at a good clip, the long spill of hair wagging back and forth on her head as she moved. At first, it was amusing, thinking of Granger with a tail.

After several minutes of staring at the metronome-like movement, though, he ducked back into his own enchantment and picked up the pace.

* * *

Draco hated the corpse examinations. Especially when there wasn't much corpse left to work with.

Trained Healers would do a further examination, but it was up to Granger and himself to document and collect the various elements of the scene. Especially if said elements meant that the corpse involved was half-gone in a pool of toxic waste. Potions accidents were some of the worst, Oddsbodds told them. Cauldrons that hadn't been cleaned properly, experiments gone horribly wrong, an imprudent splash of its contents. The grand majority of them were fixed by St. Mungo's without much fuss.

Every few years or so, though, there was bound to be at least one that couldn't be fixed.

The smell hit them before anything else. Sickly-sweet with rot, Draco felt his gorge rise involuntarily, and forced it back down.

"If you need to be sick," Oddsbodds told them in a tight voice as they entered, "do it outside, please."

Beside him, Granger paled, but looked otherwise determined. Draco gritted his teeth. She wouldn't get the advantage over him in this. He'd witnessed things that still kept him up at night - torturing Death Eaters at Voldemort's wand point, watching the Muggle Studies professor be tortured and killed, hearing Ollivander's moans and pleas for mercy all hours of the day. Granger's agonized, twisted face while under his aunt's torture…

He glanced at Granger and wondered what kept her up at night. He'd never given much thought to what she, Potter, and Weasley had been doing after the Ministry takeover. Did it compare to torture?

They stepped into an oddly precise Victorian-style sitting room, overstuffed with swags of lace and velvet and dainty wooden furniture. Oddsbodds stepped daintily over the plush rug, and Draco and Granger followed, the odor getting stronger as they moved to the back of the home.

When Oddsbodds cast a Bubble-Head Charm over himself, Draco let down his pride long enough to do the same, and saw the opalescent gleam of the bubble over Granger's head as well.

They stepped into a potions workshop that looked just as precise as the sitting room, save for half of a wizard lying on the floor, his lower half eaten away by what looked like a translucent green jelly, which mixed in and out sickeningly with the pink flesh of the man's innards. His face was a rictus of sheer agony, the muscles drawn up and locked into tight lines of unspeakable pain. It reminded Draco a little too much of the people he'd been forced to Cruciate, and he looked away.

Looking anywhere but at the wizard's face, he registered the cauldron tipped onto the floor, contents spilled across the stone floor. He couldn't see whether the bottom was intact or not, and was hesitant to step to the side for a better view - he'd rather not come into contact with that particular potion.

Someone else had evidently thought of this, for all around the remains, there was a circle of grayish powder, forming a barrier against the potion's spread. A simple _Evanesco_ would take care of it, but they still needed a sample of it, to figure out what the wizard was doing, and what went wrong.

He looked along the wall, noting certificates and pictures of prizes received, honors awarded. Nelson Prufrock, he realized, must have been quite the potions expert. And wouldn't an expert keep detailed records?

As one, he and Granger knelt down just beyond the containment line and began examining the scene.

"The cauldron bottom is intact," he said, craning his neck to get a better look and taking advantage of Granger's silence. Her camera flashed madly, with a constant whirring and clicking of metal instrumentation.

"Did MLE say whether there was a fire burning when they arrived?" she asked, her voice muffled by the bubble.

"No, no fire," Oddsbodds said, in the same distorted tones. "Now tell me, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy. What do you see?"

When Granger didn't rush to be first, Malfoy took the opportunity again. "I smelled something like curdled milk before I put the Bubble-Head Charm on - and I don't think that's part of Mr. Prufrock."

Beside him, Granger nodded in agreement. "Whatever did this - presumably the potion, but not necessarily, only disintegrates soft flesh. I can see Mr. Prufrock's bones exposed. The cartilage and musculature is eaten away, but the bones seem to be completely intact. Not to mention that the stone floor seems to also be undamaged."

They spend the rest of that morning documenting evidence. From an examination of the potions ingredients laid out on the counter, Prufrock's potion should have been harmless. Draco looked back through his previous experiments, though, and found the culprit ingredient - oceanic doxy droppings.

After Granger scraped the bottom of the cauldron and analyzed the residue, they determined that Prufrock must not have cleansed his cauldron thoroughly before starting the new potion. Sad, pointless, and preventable, Granger concluded, but no evidence was there to suggest that foul play was involved.

They decided to bypass the crowd outside and apparated directly to the Ministry to begin sorting the evidence out in the cool laboratories.

Once they were behind closed doors, Oddsbodds looked at them both keenly, making Draco and Granger very self-aware for the moment, pausing as they unloaded bags of potions ingredients and stacks of photographs.

"I've never had trainees before that didn't cry or vomit at this kind of scene," he said baldly. There was neither admiration nor disapproval in his tone. He wasn't sure how to answer.

"I think we both saw a lot during the war that we didn't want to see," Granger spoke up timidly, chancing a glance at Draco.

 _And wasn't that the fucking truth?_ \- though he didn't voice that thought aloud. Had she been thinking about the same things he had?

* * *

"It could have something to do with the bowtruckle eggs - maybe they were out-of-date?"

"Out-of-date bowtruckle eggs wouldn't do a damn thing but fizzle in the brew at that point. If you look at the last potion he brewed, though, he used bicorn horn. It's known for its ability to act as a catalyst among heavy metals and pliable woods. Add some of that to this, and you just might get an explosion."

Granger looked at him strangely, and Draco realized that she was taken aback by his knowledge of the subject.

Outrage flared up in him, flames whipped up by her presumption. He didn't really mind if most wizards and witches in England thought he was evil - he'd been on the other side, after all. To have someone assume that he was stupid, though…

"I'm not one of the two clods you hang about with," he hissed at her, taking satisfaction in the inch or so she drew away from him. "So don't expect their level of idiocy from me."

"Ron and Harry are not clods!" Granger fairly shrieked. "How did you bring them into this?"

"Into what?" he snarled. "Besides, it was well-known that you were always doing their work for them."

"I did not!" There was a half-second of hesitation there, which told him quite a bit. She might not have done all their work for them, but she'd certainly been a heavily-utilized resource. "Besides, we always assumed that Slytherins got passing grades in Potions because Snape was the Head of House."

That hadn't occurred to him – though there was a fair amount of truth in it. They sat there, glaring at each other in heated silence.

Oddsbodds chose that moment to walk in.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," he said, almost formally. "Congratulations - here are your first subpoenas." He held out twin rolls of parchment, which both took with a bit of trepidation.

Draco unrolled it, skimming through the legal language that never failed to give him a headache.

"You'll testify before the court on the evidence you gathered at Dungo's Chemistry," he said. "They're moving fast on this one, and they targeted the two of you, knowing that you're trainees. That will come up, by the way. Whenever the barrister begins hammering at your lack of experience, remind them that all your work was checked over and approved by me."

He stopped for a moment, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at his shining brow. Draco exchanged a glance with Granger. They had never seen their mentor unnerved by anything - did he have that little faith in them?

And did he just exchange a glance with Granger?

"The number one rule in giving a testimonial is to always - always! - keep your cool," Oddsbodds said seriously, drawing Draco's attention back to him. They will try to rattle you - see if you had proper authority to enter where you went, how you came to your conclusions. Explain slowly - as if to a child. Most of the people you'll be explaining your evidence to have a grounding in this, but they'll need to know that you know."

He then fixed them with a sharp glare, and Draco wondered what they had done to tick the old Investigator off.

"Above all, be honest!" he thundered lowly. "If you made a mistake, then you made a mistake. Our job is not to put a suspect in prison - it is to figure out what happened."

Oddsbodds stopped to run his handkerchief over his shining pate.

"Go and get your files!" he half-shouted. "We're going to review the case, and I'll take you through the likely questions!"

He and Granger scrambled to their feet, slightly undignified while tripping over their robes, but Oddsbodds' uncharacteristic demeanor would settle for nothing less than their complete discomfiture.

"Did we do something wrong?" Granger muttered to him, as their robes billowed behind them in tandem. Draco sidestepped a fuming witch pulling a young boy by the ear out of the Improper Use of Magic Office, and they both instinctively ducked as a flock of flying memos arrowed down the hall above their heads.

"I don't think so," he replied, going back over the case in his head. "We came to conclusions, but we didn't say who we thought was guilty. We just wrote down the evidence that led us to more evidence, right?"

"Right," Hermione said, then ducked her forehead into her palm and moaned. "This is just like final exams! Except we're going to have to go through it every other week or so!"

Draco threw her a sharp glance. "Either your wet dream or your worst nightmare, Granger."

He said it to rile her, but she just laughed, pushing her braid off of her shoulder. "Guess I'll get used to it. And I've given evidence before-"

There was a whip-crack memory of sitting in that hateful chair, the chains clinking ominously at his sides. Of Potter, stiff-faced, who didn't look at him during his entire testimony, but fixed his gaze somewhere below the Wizengamot's central podium. Of Granger, who testified, oddly enough, in whispers, and had to be asked to speak up.

They'd spoken in his defense, Potter telling the Wizengamot that his visions through Voldemort's eyes showed that Draco was being forced into acting, since his parents were kept as hostages. Granger spoke of his refusal to identify them at the manor, and the fact that he'd never identified Potter. While it was certainly true that he'd never identified Potter, even though he had been fairly certain that the Git Who Lived stood before him that day at the Manor, he wondered why Granger didn't seem to hold it against him that he'd identified her, albeit reluctantly.

She stopped speaking then, and he was grateful. He preferred not to think about the London Trials in the wake of the war, preferred not to think of the debt he owed Potter and Granger for testifying on his and his family's behalf.

He wondered if Father and Mother thought of it at all, wherever they were.

"Was it difficult?" Suddenly, he wanted to rip out his own tongue, because there were a few significant ways in which to interpret that question.

Granger held his gaze, but not challengingly, nor condescendingly. Open, as he'd never seen her before.

"I thought it would be…but no. It wasn't."

* * *

They kept to roughly the same schedule at the gymnasium. If there was a variation, he guessed she was detained with Weasley, because on those nights she looked either a bit sly or a tad vexed.

They nodded in greeting at one another, if their heads happen to face in each other's direction. Draco found that he actually liked this. Granger wasn't talking, which meant she wasn't trying to outshine him, a welcome break. She just nodded politely, not exactly smiling, but not frowning, either.

For a few moments out of the day, he was out of the spotlight, a normal wizard.

Draco enjoyed his spotlight - part of why he resented Granger at Hogwarts was because she fought him for it. He never fooled himself that he was actually liked by his fellow Slytherins. They all understood Hogwarts for what it was - a proving ground where the initial power struggles that would shape their lives were fought. Hufflepuffs never understood that, Ravenclaws knew it but considered themselves above it, and Gryffindors would go to their graves denying that it should matter in the least.

Power. Respect. What heady things they were to have, and what a crushing loss it was to be without. It was Voldemort who had first taken it from him. It took Crabbe and Goyle defying him, and then Crabbe dying, to make him realize that he'd actually cared about the idiots. Actually thought back to their shared afternoons lobbing insults and stray projectiles at their enemies with something akin to nostalgia.

He did not want friends. Not since Crabbe's death. Friends opened you up to torment and grief, made you responsible, filled you with that terrible, terrible sense of inadequacy. Enemies (or former enemies) were much easier to deal with.

Now no one looked at him, except to frown, or to stare, wide-eyed, before quickly looking away. To Oddsbodds, he was a peculiar trainee. To his landlady, he was the mortgage payment.

To Granger, walking past him in the gymnasium, he was just a wizard training with winged weights. Maybe.

He turned his head to watch her go by until the tickle of feathered wings on his cheek told him to relax his stance and let the weights down.


	6. Chapter 6

"The charm scan says there's no Dark magic involved."

"The charm scan is _wrong_. I can feel it." He could feel it, snapping at his skin, stinging the small paper cuts on his hands. The apartment had come up in their potential locations for illegal potions labs. Essence of Ecstasius required several savagely-obtained ingredients, leaving telltale Dark traces at the laboratory sites.

"If you want to testify about your feelings, then by all means, go ahead."

"Might actually work – I would know what they feel like, wouldn't I?"

"So would I."

"Not from being on the receiving end. Actually working with it – you get a sense of what's happened in a place. You just know."

" _How_ do you _just_ know?"

"It's a feeling in the air," he said, trying to describe it. "It's angry. You can feel its vibration in the air."

"Using Dark magic makes you a human tuning fork?"

He scowled. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Granger."

"Why?" she challenged, light sparking in her eyes. Draco could see she was spoiling for a fight. "Because I'm Muggleborn and couldn't possibly understand? Is that it?"

"No, you daft cow," he shot back, spoiling for a fight himself. "You haven't _used_ Dark magic."

"How would you know?"

"Because I've got you figured out, Granger," he began, but paused at her knowing smirk. As a connoisseur of the facial expression, he knew which ones were dangerous. "You're far too perfect to dabble in that, aren't you? Not even for theoretical examination. You can talk about it in theory, but when it comes to actually putting your magic where your mouth is-"

"I Obliviated my parents," she spat, looking like she wished she could throw the words at him.

He blinked. " _Who hasn't?_ "

"I didn't Obliviate them because they caught me sneaking in after curfew!" she blurted. "I Obliviated them to make them forget me entirely! To forget their lives after I was born! That's worse than making someone hurt – it's removing their experiences, their thoughts – parts of their soul!"

He gaped at her for a moment. "Did you put the memories back?"

Granger's shoulders slumped as the rage melted her stance. "No. They've been taken to all the specialists I can find. Sometimes we get a few moments of clarity, and I _know_ they know me. But it fades, and we're back to being strangers." She was very still, her eyes focused on something beyond his left ear. "Sometimes I ring their doorbell and pretend to need instructions, just so I can talk to them."

He eyed her, something like pity beginning to nip at his heart. Granger's rage could whip up faster than a windstorm and do more damage, but he couldn't see her as being the type to completely Obliviate her parents on an angry whim. More than that, she'd have only been able to do that once the Trace was taken off of her – about the same time she disappeared from their seventh year, he realized.

It hit him – Granger had probably Obliviated her Muggle parents to keep them safe when Muggleborns were being rounded up, when she had been a very valuable target herself.

"You did that to protect them, didn't you?" he asked roughly. "When the war started?"

She turned her face away in the gloom of the stripped room, but the failing sunlight cast a gleaming stripe across the hardened lines of her face.

"You think…you actually think that's Dark?" he sputtered.

"Isn't it? It's a violation of someone else's being, their will. How is that not Dark?"

"You didn't intend harm. You were trying to protect them. Granger, look at what _I_ tried to do to protect _my_ parents!"

"I suppose the saying 'The road to hell is paved with good intentions' never made its way to wizard ears."

He looked at her blankly. "Evidently so."

She sighed exasperatedly, as if explaining things to a small, stupid child. "It means that even if you do something with good intentions, it can still hurt someone, can still be evil. Your intentions don't excuse it."

"Excuse me for trying to live in the actual world, then," he spat with some venom. Flicking his wand at the drywall of the apartment, he muttered " _Puncturus_!"

His spell caused a cloud of floury drywall to puff out from a circular hole that he'd blasted into the apartment wall. "Scan _that_."

With a wary glance at him, Granger redirected her scanning wand at the damaged wall. A red glow immediately emitted from the tip of her wand. Her face indicating surprise, she moved her wand closer to the puncture, seeing the eerie red glow intensify.

"Dark-blocking drywall," she said, using one hand to knock back some of the powdery substance. "That's a new one."

Draco expected to feel pride of some sort at showing up the brightest witch of the age, but he was too consumed with a roiling irritation.

"I suppose they didn't reckon on someone in the MLE Department actually having some experience in the Dark Arts," he said, his voice sounding overloud in the small apartment. "Except Perfect Potter, who can use Dark curse after Dark curse and still rise up smelling of roses. So Granger, is the road to Heaven paved with bad intentions? Or regret for bad actions? Can good things happen from someone who once had an evil intent?"

"I…I don't know," Hermione said, looking taken aback, staring at him with a sort of wonder.

"Mark the day. Granger doesn't know something," he sneered. "I'm going to go get the camera."

As he turned on his heel and left her standing stupidly in the waning sunlight, he wondered why it was so important to him that she, of all people, understand his regret – and why it had been so important to her that he understand hers.

With a growl, he rolled his eyes and turned around again, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "You think you know evil, Granger? All you know about is fighting it. I've lived with it, watched it work, been forced to do its bidding."

She looked bewildered, and he stabbed his finger in the air for extra emphasis.

"I _know_ evil, Granger. And _you_ are not evil. Not even close."

* * *

"And what did the packet contain?"

"Nothing," Draco said, keeping his voice steady. Being in the Wizengamot was a nerve-wracking experience – his gaze kept drifting over to the chained chair, where he himself had sat nearly two years ago. "We realized this meant it was probably the target of the break-in, further confirmed by the order of potions ingredients that were never picked up from their delivery point." Dungo now sat in that chair with hollowed eyes, not looking at him, but staring at a paving tile ahead of him.

He felt Oddsbodd's narrowed eyes on him from the bench, and realized that he hadn't kept his answer to just the information that the counselor wanted. Thankfully, the counselor, Cornelia Belby, didn't remark on this – though it was likely that that was because she was representing the prosecution.

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. No further questions."

Draco felt himself relax just slightly. This meant he was probably at the halfway mark. Up in the stands, he saw Granger, sitting next to Oddsbodds. She gave him a weak smile, and he blinked in surprise. He figured that she was nervous about her own testimony, but to give him that sign of approval…

"Mr. Custards, your witness?" Draco jerked himself back to the present. This would be the hardest part, Oddsbodds warned him – defending his findings under questioning.

"Yes – Mr. Malfoy?" Draco regarded the counselor in his robes of midnight blue, his slicked-back black hair. His face, Draco thought, was rather like that of a pinched chicken, angular and with taut skin. "Back to the day of your initial investigation, the day, presumably, of the break-in – had you ever met Mr. Dungo before?"

"I had not," Draco said.

"Not at all? You'd been through Diagon Alley more than a few times before."

"I had," Draco replied carefully, wondering where this line of questioning was going. "Fortunately, I've had very few occasions to need a chemist."

"You've been very fortunate, indeed," Custards said silkily. "Exceptionally fortunate to be sitting in that particular bench, I should note."

"Objection!" called out Belby. "Relevance?"

"I'll withdraw it, then," Custards said pleasantly. "So you had no prior history with my client?"

"None," Draco said firmly.

"From your supervisor's report, he left you alone in the shop for several minutes before Miss Granger arrived, is that correct?"

"That's correct," Draco replied, feeling his stomach turn to ice.

"So you were alone in the shop, and free to do as you pleased?" Custards said, in the same pleasant tone that suggested he could be debating Quidditch, while Draco flushed red. It was only Oddsbodds' quelling stare upon him that kept him from shouting out an insult in return.

"Objection!" Belby shouted, jumping out of her seat in a swirl of slate-grey robes.

"Sustained," came the squeaky voice of the judge. "Mr. Custards, if you cannot focus on the subject at hand…"

"Your honor, I am simply pointing out a break in the chain of custody of evidence," said Custards. "Mr. Malfoy was left alone in the shop while Mr. Oddsbodds assisted my client to St. Mungo's, and Ms. Granger was in transit to the shop. Given Mr. Malfoy's past history, it is not, perhaps, wise to rule out any possibility of tampering with the evidence…"

"Your honor, Mr. Malfoy is not the one on trial here!" Belby said, glaring at Custards. Malfoy shot a quick look at Oddsbodds, a sick feeling in his stomach. Would they decide he was more of a liability and drop him from the Investigations Department? He didn't want to even contemplate such a thing. His heart leapt up into his throat and seemed to lodge there.

"With respect, Ms. Belby, the evidence is always on trial," Custards replied equably. "In the interest of time, however, I think I'll cut it short there." He sat down, reaching over to pat Dungo on the arm, who seemed hardly aware of the doings around him.

"Very well, Mr. Custards. Rebuttal from the Wizengamot counsel?" the judge asked kindly.

Belby looked squarely at Draco, and he wondered if she had sat in on his judgment after the war. He thought he saw a bit of sympathy in her face before she opened her mouth.

"Just one question, your honor," she said. "Mr. Malfoy – did you tamper or deliberately mishandle any of the evidence in this case?"

"No," he replied firmly, as if by saying it with enough force, he could remove the doubt planted in everyone's minds by Custards.

"Very well," the judge said. "Mr. Malfoy, you may step down."

Draco was glad of his voluminous dress robes that kept his shaking legs from view. He balled up his fists as he passed by Custards' bench, but kept walking. From behind him, he could hear Granger being called to the stand.

She got up from her seat by Oddsbodds, and they passed by one another in silence. Draco kept his eyes resolutely down, but caught a glimpse of her hand reaching out of her sleeve, fingers outstretched in his direction, before seemingly thinking better of it and drawing her hand away.

With a sigh, he sank heavily into her vacated seat beside Oddsbodds, and listened to her testimony begin.

* * *

Granger faced Custards down like a pro, and Draco wondered where she'd learned not to fear the power of such people.

"So Miss Granger, you've testified before the court that you did not see Mr. Malfoy tampering with any evidence."

"That is correct," she said primly, managing to look down her nose at Custards despite the fact that she was seated and Custards was standing. "When I arrived at Dungo's shop, I found Mr. Malfoy examining a list of inventory. After he brought me up to speed, we looked over that list together to see if there was anything at the shop likely to be stolen."

"It must be a familiar position for you – testifying in Mr. Malfoy's defense."

Belby looked about ready to object when Granger replied. "I'm afraid I don't understand your question – if that was a question."

Malfoy saw Oddsbodds tense on the bench next to him, and realized that Granger had stepped over the line a bit.

"I refer to the testimony you gave almost two years ago in this same courtroom, before you began working for the MLE," Custards said, as unperturbed as she. "You spoke in Mr. Malfoy's defense about his actions during the war – testimony that perhaps led to his acquittal?"

Granger just glared at Custards. "I testified before the Wizengamot on the truth of what I saw Mr. Malfoy do during the war, just as I am now testifying on the truth of what he and I found in the course of our investigation. What the court decides to do with that testimony is, of course, up to them."

Belby stared at Granger a bit slack-jawed. So did Oddsbodds. Draco gritted his teeth.

Custards looked at Granger for what felt like a long moment. "No further questions, your honor."

"Miss Granger, you may step down." Belby called forward a healer from St. Mungo's, who passed by Granger as she stalked from the witness bench and over to the bench where Draco and Oddsbodds sat.

Once she got there, Oddsbodds stood up, and Draco followed suit. Oddsbodds made a silent gesture that meant they could step out quietly.

Out from under the oppressive silence of the courtroom, Draco inhaled deeply, and thought he could hear Granger doing the same.

"Well done, both of you," Oddsbodds said with pride in his voice, though the degree to which his sweaty pate was shining was evidence of his nerves. "I have a few critiques for both of you, but that was a show of grace under fire. Lunch is on me – and that doesn't happen often, so don't expect it every time you testify."

* * *

They sat together in a small café in Diagon Alley, sliding shoulder to shoulder in a small booth at the back, so that they could discuss the case in quiet voices. Draco was just glad he wouldn't be on public display. The presence of Oddsbodds and Granger also assured him that he would get service – when the frozen yogurt cart in the Ministry of Magic was staffed by the wizard with a pointy moustache, he was always informed that the cart was suddenly empty of all yogurt, though it seemed to reappear suspiciously quickly after he'd left.

He'd loved the peach frozen yogurt, too, with the little bits of fruit mixed in.

Oddsbodds picked apart their testimony, noting that they'd both strayed slightly from the counsel's questions. He did, however, praise their ability to keep from retorting angrily at attacks on their character.

Granger seemed to just be picking at her salad – Draco couldn't tell if she was listening to Oddsbodds or not, though he would guess so, knowing her. Oddsbodds was prepping them for future testimony, so he supposed that his presence on cases would not always bring that kind of reaction.

He jostled her arm by accident in the confined space, muttering a quick apology. Granger's eyes flicked up towards his own, and Draco froze, his skin prickling. Was she thinking about her defense of him? Was she ashamed? Regretful?

Once they were finished, Oddsbodds left them to speak with a friend at Madame Malkin's, instructing them to go back to headquarters and to continue sorting through the evidence in the Upmann case.

The silence remained between the two of them as they Apparated together outside the Ministry of Magic, riding down (or up – it was always hard to tell) on the lift to the MLE offices.

"You didn't need to do that, you know," Draco said, unable to stand the quiet a moment longer, batting at a flying memo that seemed to be keeping pace with his ear. "You didn't have to defend me."

Granger glanced over at him with a look he couldn't interpret. "In case you weren't listening, I wasn't." They moved quickly to sidestep two Aurors running out the door.

"But what you said…"

"Was the truth. You're an enormous git most of the time, Malfoy, but you're not a liar."

"Most of the time?" He grinned as she turned to look at him sharply and narrowly missed colliding with a Wizengamot official.

"You know, most guys would say "Thanks" and leave it at that," she sniffed.


	7. Chapter 7

The evidence room was Draco's favorite in the entire Ministry. It resembled nothing so much as Professor Snape's old Potions classroom. While evidence itself was cleared out each day and locked in evidence storage, the examination area was crammed with the various instruments necessary for processing the evidence.

You needed a password to get past the portrait of a rangy man smoking a pipe, smoke curling up to his deerstalker cap. Draco didn't pretend he understood the Muggle story behind it, and the passwords to enter were completely nonsensical – "Elementary, my dear Watson," "Norbury," or "It is simplicity itself."

Once inside, on one shelf, jars of brightly colored powders jostled for space, their contents sparkling maliciously in the low lighting, used for determining whether it was a magical person or creature who had left a fingerprint at a crime scene. On the shelf above it rested an assortment of silver objects, several of which hummed in the stillness of the room. Draco wasn't sure what several were used for, but knew that Granger could probably disassemble and reassemble them with one hand tied behind her back at this point. A tap of the wand on one Y-shaped instrument automatically produced a special green light, revealing bodily fluids and other minute debris.

Cauldrons sat in another corner, stacked in lopsided fashion and tipping dangerously toward an assortment of gleaming glass vials on another shelf. Pre-made potions labeled with thin parchment tags gleamed like jewels in shades of deep ruby and shining emerald. Tacked to the wall in various places were pale and wrinkled laboratory safety posters with cartoon witches and wizards grinning vacantly, many of which looked like they had first gone up around the time that Draco's father had been born. The facsimile skeleton of a wizard ("Buckingham" – Draco didn't know the story behind it) stood at attention in one corner. On a whim, someone had stuck a Chudley Cannons hat on the skull. Beside it stood a table with a blank white diorama, waiting patiently for someone to put it to use. Neither Draco nor Granger had had the opportunity to use it yet, but with a series of complex charms, Oddsbodds had demonstrated how they could recreate a crime scene, moving in small characters and pinpointing evidence. Magnificus glasses, charmed to zero in on a particular bit of evidence, lined any bare spots in the walls, as iridescent as abalone shells.

The room smelled occasionally of rotten eggs, but Draco rarely felt as happy these days as he did when working in the evidence room. No one could say that he wasn't good at adding up the pieces to solve a puzzle – Dumbledore could have attested to that.

Granger had beaten him to the evidence room that morning – yet again. Was it Draco's fault if he liked to sleep in a bit? He watched her as she sorted evidence on a long table, absorbed in her material, putting him oddly in mind of a woman sorting seashells on the beach.

Draco nodded at her as he walked in, receiving a nod in return. He pulled his own boxes from the lockers in the back and began sorting through the evidence packed away, on the opposite side of the long table from Granger. Glancing at his inventory list, he realized that he'd missed a box, and left to retrieve it.

When he returned, he stopped at the threshold of the room, watching Granger work. They were working the same case – their evidence might be from different rooms, but the perpetrator had traveled through several rooms, and all of it was relevant. So why did two meters of space exist between his boxes and Granger's boxes?

"This is idiotic," he spat. "Granger, move your boxes to the middle of the table."

"I told you, Malfoy, to never give me ord-" She broke off in bewilderment as Draco pushed his boxes to the middle of the table and began pulling out bags of evidence.

As warily as if she were approaching a hippogriff in rut season, Granger slid a box to the middle of the table.

"So where are you at on the sitting room blood traces?" she asked.

* * *

They both surveyed the body carefully as it lay crumpled on the gravel, slowly soaking up the afternoon rain.

Granger was the first to break the thick silence. "Was that _really_ necessary?"

The Muggle man lay motionless on the ground, his mouth open and relaxed, small bits of shining gravel stuck to his gaping lips, eyes unfocused on the scene before him. Draco slowly pocketed his wand again.

"It was either that, Granger, or trust in your ability to lie," he spat, annoyed. "Frankly, I have more faith in my Stunners."

She made a noise that could have been a curse or a snort, and bent down to tend to the fallen Muggle, wiping clean his face and turning him onto his back.

"We'll have to call in the Squad for him," she said. " _You_ can do the honors."

"Come off it, Granger," he drawled. "You think there was a chance in hell he wasn't going to need a Memory charm after seeing that?" He gestured to the scene behind them, where members of the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad were still working feverishly to tame the biting house. A young boy – too young for Hogwarts – had evidently been angry at the thought of having to stay home while his parents and older siblings had gone out to an event. When they came back home, the little bungalow wouldn't admit them – and began to attack.

"I think there's probably a better way of going about it than frightening him half to death," she retorted.

Feeling that it would be wiser to remain silent, Draco watched with interest as the Squad took to their brooms, flying about the house in a coordinated pattern, wands aloft. The house aimed its chimney at them, dousing the unlucky members in clouds of choking soot. The others ducked bricks and pieces of furniture hurled through doorways and open windows.

A young witch on the squad pelted through the cloud of soot and dodged a hail of flying bricks – only to be felled by an overlarge mattress. Draco was inclined to laugh at this, but one side-glance at Granger's horrified expression as the witch was caught by her teammates, and he subsided.

He'd annoyed her enough for one day, he supposed.

In front of them, the house roared, a surprisingly loud cry of squeaking hinges and banging cabinets.

* * *

Draco thought he might be in love.

The desks weren't much bigger than the chairs that stood behind them. And yet they were there, wobbly-legged and splintering at the ends. Granger looked over at him with a grin on her face.

"I think we're moving up in the world," she said. "We don't have to write up our reports in the lab anymore!"

Draco could only grin back stupidly. It was an idiotic thing to be proud of, but it was a step up from trainee to someone the MLE just might want to invest some resources in. In a fit of uncharacteristic gallantry, he repaired the wobbling legs on his and Granger's desks – he wouldn't say where, but he got rather good at furniture repair somewhere along the way.

The next morning, when the two of them strolled into the office, he saw a roll of parchment spread out on his desk. His stomach flipped – it was a crudely-drawn image of the Dark Mark, not nearly as skillfully etched as the one blasted onto his arm without his say-so.

"Oh, this is harassment!" Granger cried out, and he wished that she'd been a little late that morning. "Malfoy, you've got to report this."

"Doing it," Draco said, crumpling the parchment up and lobbing it deftly into the fire burning in the hearth. "There's my report, delivered."

"But you can't just – I mean, your name's been cleared!" Draco suddenly wondered if her indignation was less on his behalf and more about her inability to convince every last person in the Wizarding world with her testimony.

" _Drop_ _it_ , Granger," he growled. "It's done."

She looked as if she wanted to protest, but he glared at her and she subsided.

"Take that toy on the rug, Draco."

"I'm afraid I'll lose my fingers. He's got teeth now, doesn't he?"

"He's got to learn at some point."

Teddy was on the verge of his "terrible twos," as Andromeda put it. He'd been in a sour mood all day, she told Draco when he arrived, and had suddenly taken to material ownership like a new convert. The three of them sat together on the thick braided rug in front of the fireplace, the winter rain pounding outside, Teddy arranging and rearranging his Quidditch figurines in glow of the flames. Drinking tea with Andromeda, Draco felt more at peace here than he did anywhere else in England.

"That would be your Malfoy influence, you know," she teased him, as Teddy looked up crossly from his pile of toys to see Draco absently fiddling with a moving figurine of Viktor Krum. He got unsteadily to his feet, and stalked with all the ire of a two-year-old over to where Draco sat. Teddy yanked with surprising strength at the figurine, but Draco held fast, as Andromeda had instructed him to.

"Mine!" Teddy's face had reddened, the soft white-blond hair he'd affected for Draco's visit quickly turning a deep auburn. Feeling itself being tugged in two directions, the figurine of Krum began to struggle frantically.

"No, Teddy," Andromeda said evenly, adjusting her skirts from where she sat on the floor with Draco. "We share, remember? Look at all your other toys." She pointed at the figurines scattered across the floor.

"Mine!"

Draco felt a twinge at the angry, indignant face staring him down. Not exactly pity or sympathy, but the boy was learning what was his, and to fight for it. "Meda, are you sure?"

"Absolutely," she replied, staring his guilty expression down. Perhaps it was just the fact that the boy was his bloodkin, but Draco felt guilty, holding the Krum figurine fast in his hands while Teddy howled in indignation. He'd had no problem teasing and taunting the first-years when he was a prefect, but there was something different in Teddy.

Or was the difference in him? Ever since Dumbledore fell from the Astronomy Tower, Draco felt like a stranger walking around in his own skin. When the war was finally over, he felt even more uprooted. His father tried quietly to remind him of family pride – they were _Malfoys_ , after all. But where Draco had been certain of so much a few years before – nothing remained.

Dumbledore had been aware of Draco's mission to kill him – and yet gave him mercy throughout the year, culminating in a final offer of shelter for him and his family. Professor Snape – the double agent he thought had been working for the Dark Lord – had been in love with Potter's mother, killed Dumbledore out of mercy, and had been working for Dumbledore all along while protecting Draco. Potter, who had every reason in the world to hate him, risked his own life to pluck Draco from the Fiendfyre.

Granger, the subject of nothing but his jibes and curses for years, testified in his defense to keep him out of Azkaban – and once more in defense of his character. It was a trend he couldn't fail to observe.

He could run off into hiding with his family, cling to what was familiar, or he could try his luck in this new world, with these people who were full of surprises. It wasn't courage so much as common sense that held him in place.

"We must share," he said suddenly to Teddy. "Can you bring your toys over here? Bring them here, and we'll play."

Teddy glared mutinously at him, before throwing himself on the rug in a full-blown tantrum. Draco winced as the boy's howls reached piercing levels. Perhaps there was some werewolf in him, after all.

"Cruel to be kind, Draco," Andromeda said calmly. "Let him wear himself out a bit. He's going to learn this lesson one way or another."

Draco wondered if it really worked that way. But already, Teddy's tantrum seemed to be subsiding. He looked over angrily at Andromeda and Draco.

"Want to play, Teddy?" he asked again.

Sulkily, Teddy scooped up a few other figurines from the floor and dropped them at Draco's feet. He sat down on the carpet with a pout, brightening slightly when Draco perched a figurine on each of his index fingers, imitating broomsticks, letting the Quidditch players crash in midair.

Andromeda winked at him, and it was one of the few genuine smiles he could remember seeing on her face.

"Are you coming for his b-i-r-t-h-d-a-y?" she asked, spelling out the word since Teddy had become quite attuned to it. "Fair warning, Harry will be there."

His heart sank, but he did his best to look diffident. "Wouldn't miss it," he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. "After all, I still fly better than he does."


	8. Chapter 8

Granger was at the gymnasium when he began his daily workout the next day, some distance into her run already. Their schedules were so in sync with one another, he sometimes wondered if they rose from bed at the same time in the morning, if they ate their evening meals about the same time. Sometimes, as he slipped under his bedcovers, he briefly wondered if Granger was doing the same – though the thought that the Weasel would be beside her was enough to stop that thought cold in its tracks.

He wondered what could have brought her there so early in the day – she seemed to like schedules as much as he did.

Draco nodded at her as he passed, and she returned it, adding a little wave, her ponytail waving back and forth behind her.

He stretched, enjoying the snapping and popping of joints as he prepared to step onto the pedambulator. On the days after a visit to Teddy and Andromeda, he always felt a bit dreamy, as if it required some special effort to become engaged in the world around him again.

Watching Granger's ponytail wave back and forth in front of him, he decided against calling up an enchanted running path. Instead, he focused on the puzzle of her.

She concentrated hard on the numbers in front of her, he noticed, observing the short, brusque movements of her fists through the air. Her face was pinched, and not from fatigue, he realized, but from inner stress. Something was bothering her deeply – she kept shaking her head minutely and frowning at the air in front of her.

Draco wondered if she was conducting an argument in her imagination – how _like_ her. They couldn't attend to a pet shop burglary without Granger reading up on illegally imported magical creatures and minutely examining the store for traces of them. How very like her to prepare for an ongoing tiff by rehearsing her arguments in her head. She'd been arguing with someone – the Weasel? – and perhaps this was why she was early.

After some time, she stopped, braced herself while inhaling deeply, then hopped lightly off of the machine, toweling the sweat off of her face. Draco kept his eyes fixed on a point in front of him as she passed. Once she was gone, off toward the weights, he grabbed his wand, activating the enchantment for the volcanic path.

This was perhaps less focusing than trying to figure out what had happened to Granger, but Draco enjoyed it nevertheless. He felt as if he were pounding down a path of barking sand onto a packed-earth trail, the sounds of exotic birds filling his ears, the sight of the crashing ocean waves in the distance enthralling him.

He had gone only a kilometer or so before Granger appeared within the enchantment, gliding across the shining obsidian stone as the enchantment let her in.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said abruptly. "But do you know how to work the featherweight machine over there? I can't get it to move a centimeter."

Draco jumped lightly off of the machine, flicking at the enchantment with his wand to hold his place. "The rower?"

She nodded, and he stepped over with her to the machine. "Sit down, facing the wall," he said, slightly proud at the thought that he might know something she didn't. "Brace your feet there…and grab the handles."

Granger followed his instructions. "Is the weight right?" he asked, fiddling with the contraption.

"Yup."

"Wimp."

"Only when I'm trying something out for the first time. After that I'm fearless."

He raised an eyebrow and she flushed as crimson as her house's color.

" _Anyway_ ," she said, annoyed, "I got this far on my own, but the bar is jammed or something. What else do I need to do?"

"Keep your back straight," he said, gesturing rather than touching her back, and watched as her spine straightened. "Now pull back…oh, do you have the enchantment on?"

"No."

" _Oceaneous_ ," he murmured, tapping the machine three times with his wand. "Can you see the water?"

"Yes…this is amazing!" she said, lost in the enchantment of what likely resembled a calm tropical waterscape. He wondered if he were squatting on the ocean waves or in a boat.

"If you row correctly, you'll progress through the ocean. Do it wrong and it will splash you," he said.

"Okay." Before Draco could back away, Granger had pulled back on the handles – a little too quickly. A moment later, the two of them were drenched in seawater. Draco shook his head, trying to get the enchanted water out of his eyes. Granger looked just as startled, the water plastering her loose hair on her cheeks.

"Sorry, sorry!" Granger exclaimed, casting a quick drying charm over the two of them. "Guess I could use a little more weight on this."

"Told you," Draco snorted, shaking water droplets from his hair into her face, making her laugh. "You're all right, then?"

"Think I've got the hang of it, yeah. Thanks."

He started to walk away, but she called out. "Malfoy!"

Draco spun in place, turning to look at her. "Yeah?"

"You're using the volcanic island path?"

"It's the only one that doesn't end up in a downpour."

"Use the rainforest one – but go to the left of the mahogany tree – you know the one past the river?" He nodded. "The view is really worth it, and for some reason, you don't get any rainstorms that way."

"Oh…thanks." He wasn't sure what made him do it, but he turned his head and inclined it toward her, the way he'd watched his maternal grandfather express thanks to others. A simple, elegant gesture, he'd admired it in his grandfather and secretly tried it out before his own mirror.

Granger blinked at him, startled, pink rising in her cheeks, and he turned quickly away, cursing himself for an idiot.

* * *

"I've been thinking," Granger began, as she sat down next to him the evidence lab.

"What's new about that?" he gruffed, and saw her pretty lips quirk in good humor.

 _Pretty?_

"I want your opinion – it's about the Catatonius Concoction labs," she said, pushing a roll of parchment across the table at him. "This is a section from " _The Illiad_ ," by Homer."

"The hell do dead Greek poets have to do with this?" But he could see Granger fairly sparking with energy, her eyes alive with inspiration.

"This section here – look, I'm not going to read it all, but essentially, Helen, when she gets back to Troy, realizes that she's got a problem," Granger began. "There are a lot of war veterans there, a lot of them in pain from what they've had to go through in the war. That war – while it probably wasn't fought just to get her back – a lot of those warriors blamed her.

"Either out of fear for her life, or out of sympathy for their pain, she started brewing up a concoction that she fed to them – heavy on the narcotics." Granger rapped the parchment with her index finger for emphasis.

"You're thinking that the person behind this pattern isn't just doing this for profit?" he asked, attempting to follow her line of thought. Frankly, he didn't blame Helen – there were some days he didn't know what he wouldn't do for an enchantment that would stop people from sneering at him, from whispering 'Death Eater' behind his back when he stood in line at the shop.

"Exactly!" Granger said, and looked pleased that he'd caught on. "The bank accounts weren't charged for large amounts – just for what I'm guessing the potion brewer needed for materials and supplies. They also needed certain things – Portkeys and extra wands – but they only went for those things. They didn't try to steal valuables."

"That's-" Draco broke off, the wheels in his mind clicking very fast "-not a bad idea." He reached for the box of evidence from the Perpetua Cleggmann case.

"Cleggmann's testimony," he said. "One of the few memories they recovered from her was the phrase "I'm sorry for your pain" – but we thought they were just buttering her up to get her hooked on the potion."

"There's no link behind the cases, though," Granger said, looking disappointed that she hadn't gotten further. "There's no pattern behind it – the people who lost loved ones lost them to different causes. Several were murdered by overzealous Snatchers, some by Death Eaters – some died in Azkaban." She didn't mention the many murdered by the Dark Lord – the many who had died in battle at Hogwarts.

"Not necessarily," Draco rejoined, beginning to share in her excitement. "We're probably not looking for a Death Eater – if they're not in Azkaban, they're probably staying as far away from the United Kingdom as possible. Exhibit One, my parents."

He choked as the words came tripping out of his mouth. He'd gotten too relaxed, too excited. He wasn't guarding himself as he should.

"Look at the pattern of attacks," Draco blundered on, trying to make Granger forget his slip. "This is someone who knows how to get around, who knows that a chemist needs a license for orders, that they needed an untraceable Portkey. I'll bet we're looking for someone who was in the Ministry after the Dark Lord took over. Someone who saw all those interrogations – someone who now feels guilty and wants to make the victims forget."

"Excellent thinking," Granger said, and Draco blinked at this sudden and extravagant compliment from Hermione Granger. "We'll need to write this up and get it to Oddsbodds, and we'll need a list of people who were working here at the time."

"I'll write a memo to the Archives Department," Draco said, snatching up quill and paper. "Can you get hold of Oddsbodds?"

"I can," Granger said, pulling her wand from her sleeve. "I think he's up in Ottery St. Catchpole today."

She stood up, and appeared to concentrate hard for a moment, then cried, " _Expecto_ _Patronum_!" At her words, a silvery creature shot forth from her wand, paddling in midair, before circling around Granger with apparent affection.

"Mr. Oddsbodds, Malfoy and I believe we may have some information that could help solve the Catatonius Concoction case," she said. " _Expeditus_ _Patronum_ – _Odo_ _Oddsbodds_!"

The little Patronus shot off.

"Your Patronus is a seal?"

"An otter," she corrected him. "A sea otter, I think."

She sat back down, pulling out fresh parchment, and began scratching away, writing up their report. A few minutes later, a memo flew in to the lab, bearing with it several reports from the Archives Department. Draco began cross-checking the list of Ministry employees at the time with lists of the dead, highlighting those who had worked directly with the Inquisition.

While he enjoyed the shared silence, Draco found that he missed their shared rapport of just a few minutes ago.

"What made you think of the _Illiad_ anyway?" he asked hesitantly.

Now he watched as Granger shifted in embarrassment, an amusing spectacle as her cheeks turned pink and her hair seemed to frizz under his gaze.

"It…I've read it a few times," she said. He quirked an eyebrow and she closed her eyes in embarrassment. "Helen's daughter is named Hermione. My parents went honeymooning in the Greek Isles, explored Sparta, and came back with the idea that they would name their child Hermione or Leonidas."

"Not Helen?"

"They didn't want a vain daughter," she sniffed. "So they had to give her a name that no one could pronounce."

A grin pulled at Draco's lips.

"My parents named me after a few stars that some Ancients high on potions thought looked like a dragon," he replied. Across the table, he heard Granger chuckle. He liked the sound – it wasn't a high-pitched titter, but a genuine expression of amusement.

"I always thought you were named after that Shakespeare play," he said, not wanting to let the conversation lag. "The one that had to go into hiding after her idiot husband accused her – then left their baby to be raised by a bear?"

"That's…not exactly how it goes, but no," said Granger. She paused, looking over at him curiously. "I didn't know you read Shakespeare. Or Homer."

He actually didn't – much. But in the Slytherin dormitories, what was derided was also a subject of mystery. Along with Shakespeare, volumes of works by other Muggle authors like Dickens, Wilde, and Shelley were traded like contraband – derided, but devoured. "Some."

"What's your favorite?"

" _Hamlet_."

"Mine's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_."

"Romance." He made the word sound like an insult.

"Not so much that," she replied easily. "I liked Puck and all the fairies running rampant and causing mayhem," she said. "I spent days trying to figure out a curse to give someone a donkey's head."

"Useful. Still, I would have pegged you for _Henry V_ – tremendous heroic battle against the odds won by courage and all that rot."

She grinned, and he let the conversation fall, embarrassed. How had it gotten to this point, where he was so lonely he sought conversation with former enemies?

"Why do you like _Hamlet_?" she asked. "I would have pegged _you_ for _The Taming of the Shrew."_

"I'm not even going to ask why."

"All right then. But why _Hamlet_?"

He paused, considering the question, and went with a less explosive, if less honest explanation. "How many plays are there where a guy talks to his father's ghost, murders a man behind a tapestry, has incestuous tension with his mother, uses a puppet show to confirm his uncle's guilt, drives his girlfriend to madness, then digs up the skull of his old clown and talks to it?"

The actual truth of the matter was that Draco had always loved the first scene, with Hamlet's companions swearing allegiance to him and to his mission. How easy Gryffindors had it, he'd thought. They could trust each other to be as barmy and self-sacrificing as they were themselves. When he'd had his own mission, he'd had to bully and threaten to get any help, and could trust no one with the specifics of his job.

"When you put it that way," Granger laughed, breaking into his thoughts, "I suppose I see the appeal. I'm just surprised that you've read any Muggle literature at all – I never saw you in Muggle Studies."

Draco scowled. Of course, it always came back to this. "If it allows you to keep thinking what you've always thought about me, then by all means, Granger."

While it didn't force an apology from her, it did shut her up.

She'd been trying to figure him out, he realized belatedly. He wasn't sure whether to be insulted or flattered.

"I don't know what to think about you in that respect," she spoke up, some minutes later. "I just didn't see you as a Shakespeare guy."

There were several replies he could have made, but letting Granger have the last word would end it. He just nodded, and saw her eyes turn back to her report.

* * *

While Oddsbodds agreed with their findings, the report was handed over to the Aurors, who took prompt possession of the investigation. Oddsbodds told Draco and Granger that the Aurors would be putting several prime suspects under surveillance.

"We don't help?" he asked.

Oddsbodds raised an eyebrow. "We're needed for the next cases to come up, Mr. Malfoy. These kind of investigations are in the hands of the Aurors – that's how these things work."

Draco nodded, and caught Granger's eye some moments later. She grimaced at him. Being shut out of their own investigation was disheartening.

* * *

"Wouldn't hurt them to at least let us know how things are going," Granger fumed that evening, as they took adjacent pedambulators in the gymnasium to complain to one another. "Wouldn't hurt their investigation in the slightest, I would think."

"We're expected to hand everything over to them, but they don't have to give us anything," Draco agreed, pounding down the enchanted rainforest path.

"It's just completely unfair," she agreed, ponytail bouncing behind her. "We don't even know the end result of the cases until the Daily Prophet comes out in the morning."

They had both read the Prophet's report on the Dungo case. Dungo had been sentenced to treatment and counseling, and a probationary period of random checks on his shop. His business, however, already suffering from his reduced hours, looked to be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Draco wondered what that would do to the apothecary's already fragile state of mind.

"I would have thought Potter would give you a heads-up every now and then," he said casually.

Granger snorted. "Harry? No. I think he's been warned against giving me any hints of what they're doing. Kingsley mentioned that I shouldn't presume on friendship inside the Ministry."

Draco smirked. "Were you presuming?"

She huffed, and when he craned his neck over, looking into her enchantment, he could see her running through an alpine meadow in spring.

"When I first started as an Investigator, we were having a meal together in the cafeteria," Granger growled. "I think Kingsley overheard me asking Harry if I'd see him at any crime scenes."

So much for his theory that Potter was dropping her hints. Then again, Granger had proven herself the type who wouldn't presume on friendship – even when it could save her quite a bit of time.

A wizard Draco didn't recognize – but who clearly recognized him – crossed their paths, throwing Draco the dirtiest look he could muster. Granger frowned and called out a greeting to the wizard, who quirked his lips in a parody of a smile at her before scuttling off.

"That's hardly presuming," Draco continued, trying hard not to look and see if Granger was watching him.

"It was enough," Granger said, with a one-shouldered shrug. "At least they didn't ask us to stop associating at work – like Terry Boot and Imogene Blair."

"But they were dating," Draco replied. Even with as few people on speaking terms as he had, word had reached him of the Portkey Authority affair. "Last I heard, you were with the Weasel and Potter's with the littler Weasel."

"Quit calling them that."

"When it's no longer appropriate, I'll think about it," he sneered. "But honestly, Granger – if I had to choose between Potty and the Weasel, and death wasn't a third option…really, I think you at least missed out on the benefits of being a trophy girlfriend."

Granger blew air from her mouth in frustration. "No, for the eleven-thousandth time, Harry and I are not dating, secretly or otherwise. But we're old friends, and I think Kingsley's afraid of indiscreet talk - compromised investigations and the like."

"Huh. So all I have to do is say I'm shagging Mafalda Hopkirk, and I won't have to do all those follow-up reports? Because really, we shouldn't have to investigate and do a full write-up every time some pre-Hogwarts kid loses it and turns his brother into a toad."

Granger's laughter pealed out in an arpeggio, and she narrowly missed a mahogany tree in her pedambulator enchantment. Draco crowed his own laughter.


	9. Chapter 9

Teddy's birthday dawned unseasonably warmly, and Draco Apparated over early to take advantage of the balmy weather. Getting there before Potter was just a side benefit.

The two-year-old boy already had a toy broomstick that propelled him a few inches off the ground. Andromeda kept it mostly shut and locked in a cabinet after a few bruising rampages through the house. Better safe than sorry, she surmised.

He was, after all, one of the few links back to her family that she had – which was why Draco anticipated needing most of the day to convince her to let Teddy fly with him. He Apparated outside their front door, stowing his broomstick in a convenient outdoor cabinet – better than getting Teddy's hopes up right away.

He knocked. "Andromeda? Teddy?"

For once, Andromeda opened the door with a blinding smile, and he was gratified to see the expression. She had Teddy in her arms, his hair the color of shamrocks. "Draco! Come in!"

He grinned at her and Teddy, taking the toddler into his arms. "Happy birthday, Teddy!" Teddy squealed and threw up his hands.

Draco followed Andromeda into the house, where the cozy interior had come alive with ribbons, balloons, and streamers.

"He just began to work on morphing his features this morning!" Andromeda cried, deftly pulling a cake out of the oven and setting it to cool. "Thought he'd come down with a case of hives, but he was just practicing, my bright little lad!"

"You've been morphing? Clever boy!" Draco asked Teddy, holding him up so that he could look the boy in the eyes. Teddy laughed, the high-pitched careless laugh of children, and morphed his hair a white-blond, then his nose into a sharp point. Draco felt something in his chest swell at this.

"Brought a present," he said to Andromeda, motioning to his satchel. "Should I hide it, or…?"

"Pass it to me when his back is turned," Andromeda said, pulling out a bowl from the cupboard and flicking her wand at the various ingredients she needed for the frosting, setting them to work. "I figured we'd do a rainbow cake – keep him guessing at the colors in case he wants to morph that way, too."

Draco waited until Teddy turned to run back to Andromeda before he pulled the green-wrapped package from his satchel. Tiny figurines of dragons across the world – each charmed to move about and fly, and set with anti-choking charms to make them pop out of a toddler's mouth before they'd been swallowed.

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes had quite a good arrangement of toddler toys. Not that Draco would have ever admitted that out loud, but the fact remained.

"Meda, I was thinking…"

"That you'd take Teddy out for a flight on your broom?" she cut him off, eyeing him with an expression that put him achingly in mind of his mother. "I'm raising a toddler, Draco Malfoy. I'm keen to the look of innocence. Also, I saw you hide it when you Apparated in."

Draco blinked. He'd had a whole introduction planned, and now…

"Right," he said. "So, can I take him? We won't go higher than the house, I promise, and I'll put a Sticking Charm to keep him on the broom…"

Andromeda grimaced, taking over the mixing of the frosting herself. "I'll be flying with you, just so you know," she scowled. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's that it's Teddy."

"I understand completely," he grinned, turning on the roguish charm.

Andromeda looked unimpressed.

* * *

Teddy was ecstatic.

With the strong arm of his second cousin firmly wrapped around him, a sticking charm sealing the seat of the boy's pants to the broomstick, and a safety net charm around the broom's circumference, if Teddy Lupin happened to fall off Draco's broom at some point, he wouldn't get far. Just in case, though, Andromeda swooped nearby like a great blue butterfly, her robes billowing about her.

Teddy tried to wave at his grandmother, but Draco held his hands fast to the broom handle. "Always hold the broom, Teddy."

They set off at a fairly pedestrian pace through the meadows about the Tonks home, Draco letting the boy's toes dangle in the treetops, keeping pace with a startled egret making its way across to the pond.

Teddy made high-pitched noises and squeals that Draco could only assume were meant in joy. He squeezed his second cousin's larger hands tightly, making Draco's heart ache, but not in a particularly painful way.

After thirty minutes or so of play, Andromeda signaled that it was time for them to start their descent. She waved in greeting ahead of them, and Draco looked up to see a lanky, dark-haired young man waving back. He was suddenly glad that both of his hands were busy keeping Teddy on the broom, so that Andromeda wouldn't chide him if he didn't wave.

He had managed to forget Harry Potter in the last half-hour, cast the grim thought of spending time in the same room with him aside. As they began their descent, Draco decided to give Teddy one final treat, spiraling downward in tighter and tighter circles, dropping slowly to the ground.

They reached the grass, and Draco muttered " _Diffindo_ ," unsticking Teddy from the broom. As soon as he'd done so, though, and steadied the toddler's wobbly stance as he regained his feet, Teddy bounded over to Potter. The Boy Who Existed to Show Up Malfoy Whenever Possible seized the toddler in a hug, and his hair promptly darkened to black as his godfather wished him a happy birthday.

 _Little traitor_ , he thought ruefully.

Potter nodded to Malfoy over Teddy's shoulder. With a bit of hesitation, Draco responded with a curt nod, nothing like the elegant one he'd given Granger.

* * *

Teddy's birthday party continued through the day, with visits from neighbors and several Aurors who had worked with Tonks. Most of them had toddlers in tow, some of whom Teddy clearly recognized from previous playdates.

The children amused themselves with Teddy's new toy dragons, or shoved each other off of toy broomsticks, cruising through the house, weaving in and out of the adults' legs. Andromeda laughed and chatted with several of the parents and grandparents, and Draco was pleased to see that she still mixed so well with other people, despite her losses. At times, he envied her greatly.

Knowing that his presence could cast a pall over the party, Draco opted for a quiet seat in a shadowed corner, giving him a full view of Teddy and his friends, without exposing him to the gaze of others there. A floating dish of thinly-cut cucumber sandwiches prodded his knee. Reluctantly, he took one – they had never been his favorite.

Andromeda, however, had charmed her party dishes to "encourage" those she felt could do with a few more sandwiches or food in them. Draco wished that something a little more substantial would float his way, then turned his attention back to the children on the floor.

"So…you and Hermione." Draco flicked his eyes upward, to where Potter looked down at him from over the top of the piano, munching on a thick roast beef sandwich. Draco hastily got to his feet, trying to surreptitiously hide his cucumber sandwich in his palm.

It never hurt to remind Potter that he had a few inches on him, and he used this to look down on the shorter man – trying to make him forget that he'd been found hiding at a children's party.

"Me and Granger what?" he replied, surly.

"You're working together," Potter replied patiently. "How is that going?"

"Ask Granger."

"I have. She's surprisingly quiet on the subject."

Draco smirked, seeing his chance. "Possibly that's retaliation for how quiet you've been about our case."

"Your case?" Potter said, his tone indicating some skepticism. "Last I checked, that case belonged to the MLE – not to Investigations."

"Funny, though," Draco smiled nastily. "Granger, Oddsbodds and I do all the work giving you a list of suspects, and we can't hear about how it's going after that? Do all that work and wait with the general public for it to come out in the papers?"

"If you're referring to the surveillance on the Catatonius/Ecstasius potions rings, perhaps you'd get your answer a little quicker if you'd been able to narrow it down to a few less suspects," Potter shot back, smiling steadily. Draco was slightly unnerved to see how unruffled Potter was about the whole thing.

Then again, when had he ever been less able to insult Potter about anything? Draco's family was in disgrace and in hiding somewhere, leaving him with no viable contacts and no fortune. He had hardly any friends, couldn't get a date to save his life (what witch wanted to associate herself with the boy who tried to kill Dumbledore, who by clinging to his mother's skirts – and her timely actions – escaped jail time?) Crabbe was dead, he was no longer on speaking terms with Goyle, Parkinson was, as rumor had it, living in exile in Sicily. He hadn't seen her since she had evacuated from Hogwarts.

He had a sudden image of himself, alone, unhappy, friendless, a middle-aged man alone in his dingy flat, no command or control of anything, with only missing progress reports to harass the Boy Who Lived about.

Years of emotional control allowed him to keep a straight face, though the cucumber sandwich was squashed into jelly in his fist.

"We might be able to eliminate a few more suspects if the Aurors would favor us with a few of their findings."

Potter seemed to actually take that seriously, then fixed him with an amused eye. "You must be spending time with Hermione. You're starting to sound like her."

"Exactly when did I start sounding like a pathetic bleeding heart swot?"

"Don't talk about Hermione like that," Potter edged out in a dangerous tone, his green eyes starting to flare. To Draco's immense pleasure, he squeezed his roast beef sandwich too hard, causing a line of coarse mustard to ooze its way out and onto his robes.

"She _is_ my co-worker," Draco replied with quiet, malicious pleasure. "In any case, you might want to think about it. I know you Aurors generally don't see trouble coming unless it's pointing a wand at you, but Investigators just might find something useful."

"Auror procedure…" Potter began, red-faced, but Draco cut him off.

"When exactly did you lot every pay attention to proper procedure?" he snapped. "In any case, Hermione might find it useful."

" _Hermione_ is the one who pays attention to procedure," Potter shot back. "You should know. Besides, you know as well as I that if we deviate from procedure the whole case can be thrown."

He shifted, and realized that mustard was dripping down the front of his robes. With a moue of disgust, he cast a quick _Scourgify_ , sighed, and faced Draco again. "It's not a bad idea, though. I'll ask my superiors, let them send you an owl."

"Do that," said Draco, trying not to let the triumph shine out of his eyes. "I much prefer seeing your owl to you."

Potter's eyes dropped, and Draco was surprised that this insult had the ability to hurt. He was also fairly pleased, the tiny triumph putting a little bit of heart back into him.

"No…I…my owl, Hedwig, was killed during the war," Potter finished lamely.

"So get a new one."

"I've thought about it," Potter continued, conversationally. Was he really having a conversation with Harry Wunderkind Potter? "But every time I visit the pet shop, it feels like a betrayal, to replace her."

"It's an owl," Draco repeated, bewildered. "They sell them in Eeleyops Owl Emporium, starting at ten Galleons for saw-whets."

Potter shook his head, fixing Draco with a bemused stare that he did not like. "Of course, you would think that way."

He walked away, and Draco quietly _Scourgified_ the cucumber sandwich in his hand.


	10. Chapter 10

Granger came in one morning, looking flushed and rushed and coy, hair wild like he remembered it from school, instead of tamed and contained for her work as an Investigator. Draco turned away. It didn't take an investigator's eye to figure out what she'd been doing that morning.

"Good morning," she said cheerily, and he forced his head up to look at her again.

"Morning, Granger," he forced out, his voice sounding almost normal in his own ears. "Oddsbodds said for us to wait for him here - we'll head out to St. Mungo's in a bit. I guess we're going to start forensic examination of living victims."

"Good," Hermione said brightly. "Gives me time to do this - I was in a bit of a rush this morning."

Draco grimaced into his coffee cup.

She pointed her wand at her head, and with a " _Coifferius_!" he watched, almost entranced, as her hair pulled back, and began to weave itself along the top of her head in a plait. It was almost like watching water falling, as the plait wove neatly down her neck, to the small of her back, whereupon she drew it over her shoulder, securing it with a clasp.

He'd seen women undo their hair – had even been an eager helper in unknotting and unpinning in several cases. Seeing a woman do this, though, seemed almost uncomfortably intimate. Likely only the Weasel had ever seen her do that – and maybe he'd never seen Granger do that at all.

He shifted his eyes and realized she was giving him a funny look. "What?"

Draco flushed slightly, setting down his cup unsteadily. "Never saw a woman do that before."

Hermione tilted her head at him, an expression of interest. "Took me a while to get it right. If you're off by a little, it'll wrap itself around your neck." She got a sly look on her face, holding up her wand as if offering. "We could try it on yours."

"No!" Draco kept his hair purposely short, as much a reaction against his father as it was practicality on a crime scene. "Don't think I've got long enough hair, anyway."

She smirked, still tipping her wand point dangerously in the direction of his head. "Never know till you try. Would be a talking point, at the very least."

He laughed, a feeling so wholly unfamiliar to him that it erupted almost like a hiccup. She grinned back, and he wondered if this was how Gryffindors laughed - a tease, rather than a sting.

* * *

The little boy, no more than three or so, he supposed, stared at the wall while a female nurse, with graying hair in a quivering updo stood at attention by his bedside. The child seemed uninjured - but that was for Draco to determine.

"Hello," Draco said, feeling completely awkward and out of his depth. Why would they give this assignment to him, of all people? "My name is Draco. You're Dai, right?"

The little boy stared up at him, round hazel eyes peering through a jet-black fringe. He looked back at the nurse, either for assurance, or for her to answer for him.

Draco sighed. He'd never had much contact with those much younger than him, save Teddy, unless it was the younger students at Hogwarts whom he made sure looked up to him. There was no way he could bully this child into doing what he needed him to do. Not without seriously pissing off the nurse, anyway.

And how could he? Not when the child looked so much like Teddy in the aftermath of a tantrum. Not when he could remember trying to save his own parents – and being unable to solve the greater problem.

The nurse sensed the tension in the room, and put a hand on Dai's shoulder. "He needs to do an exam, Dai."

The little boy shook his head furiously, drawing his knees up into his chest. "Want Da," he whispered.

Draco grimaced. "Da" was currently lying in another hospital room, undergoing attempts to wake him up from his Catatonius Concoction. Granger was with him now, examining his limp hands and slackened face for evidence. He'd taken the potion the day before, an overdose, by the looks of it, and ended up passed out on the dining room rug. Dai had been the one to run and alert the neighbors. It was unclear, at least to Granger's way of thinking, whether the overdose had been forced on Dai's mother or not. Draco thought it fairly unlikely.

Dai needed a distraction, he realized. Inspiration hit. Hadn't the younger students always wanted to follow his example? Didn't Teddy?

"I'm not going to do an exam, Dai," he said easily. "I'm here to play a game. Have you ever played Mirrors?"

Dai refused to look at him.

"All right then, I'll follow you." Draco pulled his knees up to his chest, uncomfortable on the hard seating. Dai's dark eyes flickered in his direction, assessing him with a piercing glance. Immediately, he unfolded himself. Draco followed suit, mirroring the boy's stance.

"Stop it," Dai said, but Draco could tell from his tone and his face that he was more amused than irritated.

"All right," he replied. "You follow me, then."

He lifted his arms above his head in a long stretch, yawning like a lion. Draco watched out of the corner of his eye as Dai hesitated, then followed his lead.

Draco rubbed his hands over his face.

Dai rubbed his hands over his face.

Draco pinched the end of his nose and wiggled it from side to side.

Dai pinched the end of his snub nose and attempted to wiggle it.

Draco blew air into his cheeks like a pufferfish, then poked one cheek in with a finger. Giggling, Dai did the same. In the corner, he heard the nurse giggle as well.

Deciding that he needed to get the child up and moving to really make this work, Draco stood up, then helped Dai down to the floor so he could stand as well. He kicked out to one side - so did Dai.

Feeling like an utter prat, he jumped up into the air. Dai did the same, starting to look more like a little boy and less like a frightened bush-baby. Draco did a complicated hopping maneuver across the floor of the room. Dai did the same, giggling all the way.

Draco began to ease into the use of other objects. He took a spare tongue depressor from the counter, and, squatting down to Dai's level, balanced it on his nose. Dai did the same, entranced, and didn't get irritated when Draco extended a finger to help the boy balance.

Walking across the room, Dai trotting at his heels, Draco picked up his camera, and took a picture of the nurse in the corner. He handed it to Dai, helping him work the buttons and adjust the lens, to take another picture of the gamely smiling nurse.

Next, Draco took a picture of Dai. This was the one he needed, really, and when the boy held still, facing the camera without fear, he clicked the button several times. He handed the camera back to Dai, who took a picture of him.

There was a small sound outside the door, and upon seeing a pair of wide brown eyes, he realized that Granger had been watching outside for Merlin-knew-how-long.

"You play the game well, Dai," he said, feeling more kindly to the trusting little boy than he had to anyone in ages. "Know who I'll pick to play Mirror with in the future. Miss Granger's waiting for me."

The little boy smiled up at him, and something deep in his guts wrenched. He lifted Dai back onto the bed. "Good luck, little man."

Dai waved after him as he left.

"Got the picture," he said lamely, off of Granger's bewildered stare.

"Yes," she replied quietly.

"How long were you watching?" he demanded, irritated by her attention.

"Long enough," she said.

For the rest of that morning, though, he felt her eyes upon him, calculating, watching, weighing, and wondering.

* * *

They developed the photographs later that day in the claustrophobic darkroom, stinking of potions ingredients that made them breathe through their mouths in the flickering red candlelight. Draco exchanged only the bare minimum of necessary words with Granger, half-convinced that she'd been telling her best friends at lunch about him making a fool of himself with the three-year-old.

He'd been in several enclosed spaces with girls his age at Hogwarts, but never had the circumstances been this strained.

Draco took Dai's developed photo and examined it with a sigh of relief. Other than the normal bruises that a boy his age took to his knees and shins, there was no subcutaneous evidence of old, deep bruises, or contamination from toxic potions ingredients, no old scars. The exact details of the boy's body were obscured in grey, but bruises stood out in smudges of pale lavender.

"There's a relief," he said, pointing it out to Granger, who took it in the tips of her fingers to avoid smudging it.

"One point in his father's favor, anyway," she said. "You, on the other hand, have a bruised shoulderblade."

"What?" He glanced sharply at her, examining a picture of him in the red light. He realized the image was from the photo that Dai had taken.

He felt heat rise to his face. Outlined in glowing violet along his image's shoulder blade was the unmistakable smudge of a deep bruise. Along his chest, though, in the familiar pattern that he saw every morning in the mirror, were the lines of scars from Potter's Dark curse in their sixth year. Outlined in hot yellow, from this perspective, it looked like he'd been clawed by a sphinx. Along his collarbone was another deep one, this from his incarceration and punishment in the Manor, when the Carrows delivered a slashing blow. A more innocent one, a deep cut from where he'd cut his calf along the Manor gate while trying to fly beyond it as a child, rippled down his left leg.

His tattoo, the mark he'd wanted and yet not wanted, glowed in deep red along his forearm.

"Looked your fill?" he spat, as she continued to peruse the image. "Can show you the real thing - just say the word and I'll drop trou."

"I thought you might be injured - I saw you wincing when we were processing the scene…"

"Granger, this is more than a little intrusive," he cut her off, trying to grab the photo. She gave it over without a fight.

"Sorry," she said easily. "Didn't know whose it was until I developed it."

"Right." He hated that all his scars and wounds had been laid bare to her. Such knowledge was far, far too intimate.

"Do you want me to…" There were a thousand ways she could have ended that sentence.

"Do I want you to what?" He looked at her darkly, and even in the red light, he saw her flush.

"Heal it. I've gotten pretty good at healing strains and bruises." She didn't say when or where, but Draco could guess.

He opened his mouth to deliver a retort about her getting that skill from Weasley/Potter pratfalls, but shut it just as quickly. It _was_ hurting.

"If you can do it without removing my arm."

"I think so." She moved behind him, and he jumped a little when he felt her warm hand on the small of her back. Instantly, the darkroom felt far too small - what had they been thinking when they designed the place? Did she think that she had to hold him in place? Couldn't they do this outside, where there was light and room to move?

Granger muttered several spells, moving her wand tip in counterclockwise circuits around his affected shoulderblade. While a strange sense of panic kept bubbling up around his stomach, a warm tingling seemed to envelop his shoulder, relaxing it, making the muscles soft and lithe once more, instead of overly tense. He didn't understand why she kept a hand at the small of his back, though – a warm spot that his senses kept trailing back to.

Finally, Granger was done. Draco rotated his shoulder in a slow circle, feeling no pain.

"Thank you," he said, as formally as if she had just helped him secure a bank loan, or the like.

"You're welcome," she returned, looking a bit tense herself.

They turned back to their photographs, and a charged silence sat between them.

Draco absently wished that he'd gotten a picture of Granger as well with the camera, so that they'd be equals in this, so that he'd know her scars as well.

A whip-crack of memory hit him over the head, of Granger's strangled screams and sobs, writhing on the sitting room floor of his former home, while Bellatrix, maddened in the quest to save her own life, tried to tear the younger witch apart. The camera wouldn't show the trauma unleashed with a flick of his aunt's wand.

The camera didn't show everything, he supposed.

"Can I ask you something?"

Draco gritted his teeth, anticipating the question before it was out of her mouth. "You just did. But go ahead and ask a _second_ question, Granger."

"How did you get so good with kids? I didn't think you had any younger siblings or cousins."

Draco stared hard at the photo in his hands, not trusting himself to look in her direction. The compliment was unexpected from Granger – and therefore, perhaps, genuine.

"I don't," he replied carefully. "Teddy is my second cousin, though. I see him now and then."

"Tonks and Lupin's son?"

He nodded. "Played that game with him during his birthday this year."

"Harry was there." Draco felt his inner guards, the ones that went up at the barest hint of the Boy Who Lived Just To Spite Others, lock into place.

"He was," he replied guardedly.

"He didn't mention you being there." A probing question, and he wasn't about to answer it.

"You might ask him about that, then," he snapped. "If Potter's vision is failing, the Aurors will want to send him to St. Mungo's."

Granger's face fell a bit, and she, too, focused her eyes fixedly on her work.

He had learned that she could never contain herself, however, and was unsurprised to hear her speak up several minutes later.

"Sorry…I just thought it was really wonderful what you were able to do for that boy."

He grunted, and let her interpret that however she pleased.


	11. Chapter 11

Many, many overdue thanks to those who have read, favorited, and especially those who have left feedback! Particular thanks goes out to TinySlippers, whose words of encouragement have buoyed me up! Thank you, m'dear!

* * *

Draco realized that he had quite enjoyed Granger's relaxed, almost friendly attitude towards him. He only realized this, however, when it abruptly ended and the hostilities renewed.

They had been getting along quite amiably, sorting through evidence of a break-in at the Leaky Cauldron. Granger had been running down the new product line at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. While Draco normally treated anything Weasley-related with the highest amount of disdain, he would admit (only to himself) that the Weasley twins had an uncommon genius in product development.

"George improved the Self-Correcting Quills – the charms were kind of running out after a month or so of use," Hermione said, organizing the photographs out on their research table. "Ron thought he should keep them as-is, and sell more. But George said that if he could get them to last a few more months, he could charge a bit more and leave his customers a bit more satisfied. Oh, and they also got Silencing Shoes – better for people to sneak around in."

"Surely Hermione Granger doesn't approve of rule-breaking," Draco said in a monotone, looking over Tom's inventory.

"Only when breaking the rules means that someone's life will be saved, or some major catastrophe will be averted," Granger said, looking uncomfortable. "You know I broke the rules quite a lot for a prefect."

"And yet it _still_ bothers you. That's pathetic, Granger. You're practically an old maid by now. I think it's time to forgive yourself for breaking curfew."

"Silencing Shoes would have come in handy at some point," replied Granger, glaring daggers at him while he grinned nastily. "That's what I was _trying_ to say, anyway."

"Ah," he continued easily, skipping over her pique. "What else do Messrs. Weasley and Weasel have ready for their summer lineup?"

"Sewerbombs – kind of a variation on Dungbombs," Granger said, ignoring his slight on her boyfriend. "And the most horrid thing – Crying Corsages. Ron still doesn't get why I'm so angry at him about them. If the date isn't going well for the boy, all he has to do is activate the corsage, which gets the front of the girl's dress wet. While she runs off to the bathroom, the boy is free to ditch her. Awful."

"Useful. Dead useful."

"Oh, blow it out your-" Exactly which orifice Granger had intended to identify was forgotten as a barred owl swooped in, alighting before Draco and sticking its leg out for him to remove the missive.

"It's from Potter," he said aloud, in blank shock. He looked into the malevolent yellow eyes of the great grey owl, who was glaring at him balefully. "Thought his owl died."

The owl bobbed forward, and before Draco could react, nipped his fingers quite sharply, before launching itself into the air with an affronted gesture, making sure to hit Draco on the head with its heavy wings as it left.

"Harry's writing you?" Granger asked, baffled enough to set down the bag of evidence she'd been about to open.

Draco hastily untied the little scroll, fumbling in his haste to see what Potter had written.

 _Malfoy,_

 _Despite the fact that it's_ **you** _who did the asking, you brought up a valid point. I'm submitting a request to bring Investigators back onto this case. Can't say whether it will continue into the future – you and Hermione will probably have to convince them from there._

 _Harry_

"He says that he's requesting that we be brought back onto the Ecstasius ring case," Draco breathed in disbelief. "He's submitting a proposal to bring us back on – and maybe if we're able to get some new leads because of it – we might be able to keep doing so in the future." He dropped the missive, glancing unseeingly at the piles of evidence. "Granger do you know what this means?"

"What?" She looked unaccountably cross, her face lined in a scowl worthy of his mother.

"It means that we get to continue our work on cases after we process the scene! We don't just hand the info to the Aurors and step back, we get to go with them!"

"Great," she sneered. With a flick of her wand, she reassembled a broken vase, and with a flourish, began scanning for fingerprints on the vase's surface. Draco watched, his good mood ebbing as Granger found a print, and cast a nonverbal charm to imprint it on her documentation.

"What's with you?" he demanded, irritated with her in a way that he hadn't been for a long time. "I just tell you that we've got a big break in our careers – and you look like Weasel when dinner's five minutes late!"

" _Will you stop harping on my boyfriend for five minutes_?"

"The _hell_ is wrong with _you_?" Draco's anger ratcheted up to equal hers.

"Oh, I don't know," Granger shot at him, scathingly. For a moment, he almost felt pity for Ron Weasley. "Could be that you're leaping over my head with this. You went and tried to get a _favor_ pulled for us!"

"I argued with Potter at a toddler's birthday party. How in hell does that qualify as asking for a favor?"

"We don't operate that way anymore, in case _you_ haven't _noticed_ ," Granger said, in her bossiest tone. "Magical Law Enforcement has channels for this!"

"Then why aren't you yelling your bloody head off at Perfect Potter, then?" he shot back. "In case _you've_ forgotten, he was shipped directly to the Auror Department – despite never taking his NEWTs or finishing school, or-."

He blinked wide. It had just come to him. "This is about my father, right?"

"Malfoy…"

"My father, who always had a bag of Galleons ready for someone to change a law in his favor, right?" he cried. "He was the ultimate player in getting the right favors. So like _father_ , like _son_ , right?"

"Why not bring me along?" she challenged, almost as if she hadn't heard him. "I wanted it, too. Why couldn't I weigh in? Make me an equal – you know that my word's got to have more weight with Harry than with you."

"Granger, you have completely gone off the deep end," he said, finally getting control of his anger. Granger was losing control of hers, and Draco automatically saw an advantage in reining in his temper, becoming calm and collected as a counterpoint to her shrieking. "Potter and I argued at Teddy's birthday party, and I brought up our idea. I had no idea that he was going to actually do anything about it. I didn't tell you or involve you in it because-"?

"Because I'm a Mudblood, right? I'll never be able to understand your higher workings because I'm not supposed to have any magic in me, according to you."

"Fucking hell, Granger," he spat, temper control gone. "When are you going sing me a new tune? It's not because of pureblood-Muggleborn shit. I stopped believing in that when I realized the Dark Lord was going to kill anyone he wanted, regardless of blood. Purebloods bled just as red under him as anyone else. If you're so set on hating me, then hate me for the right reasons at least."

Miraculously, it shut her up for a few seconds, and he took advantage of this to have the last word, and spun on his heel, and headed out the door.

* * *

She was at the gymnasium. Of course.

Her chin was high in the air - he supposed the message for him was that she wasn't going to alter her schedule just to avoid him. Granger would never give up a bit of ground. Under most circumstances, he wouldn't, either.

At least she had the decency to keep her eyes in one direction after flicking them towards him for a moment. The palaestra was empty but for them, and there wasn't the sound of anything but their puffing breaths in the room.

Granger didn't look as if she was avoiding his eyes out of guilt or shame for bringing up the whole blood status thing. She was probably still convinced that she was right, he realized.

He wanted her to believe him. He wanted one person besides Oddsbodds and Andromeda to look at him with something other than disgust, but it turned out that she wouldn't. If that meant baring his soul, or what he had left of one, so be it. This called for a dramatic gesture.

At least no one else was there to witness it.

Draco watched as Granger racked the weights, and began a military press above her head on the machine, mildly impressed by the weight that she was lifting. He waited, watching her out of the corner of his eye, until she'd had enough and left to grab the cleaning fluid across the room. The moment she passed him, he leapt off the pedometer and sat down where she had, seat and chest pad still damp with her girlsweat.

Granger walked back in with the cleanser, stopping in her tracks as soon as she saw him working out in her previous machine, the only difference in the weights.

"Malfoy, I was just about to clean that off…" she began.

"No, it's fine," he said, meeting her eyes and holding them steadily in between grunts as he lifted the weights above his head.

Granger watched him for a second more, then sat down on the machine next to him - though not to work out.

"What is it about, then?" she asked, not looking at him.

Draco finished his reps, let the weights down, and sighed.

"It's because I hate Potter," he ground out, then registered the look on her face. "It's true, and if you don't like it, I can't say that I'm sorry. But Potter is-" he stopped, embarrassed to reveal this.

"Harry is…?" Granger prompted, gently.

"He's…hell, Granger. He's everything that I was supposed to be," Draco finished dully, feeling shame and embarrassment writhe like vipers in his guts as her eyes widened. "That's why he gets under my skin. When I saw him at Teddy's party, he had the world under his thumb, and I couldn't get just a little something that would make my job more effective."

"Oh," Granger said, lamely, but in a way that made Draco think that she just might get it – get his point of view. "When you say that Harry is everything you were supposed to be…do you mean that he's everything that _you_ wanted to be…or everything that your _father_ wanted you to be?"

Fifty points to Gryffindor, despite the fact that this was taking an unexpected turn. "I…don't know."

"Okay. But if the war hadn't happened, and things were like they were before your father went to Azkaban, what would you be doing now?"

Draco thought for a moment, but really, the answer had been staring him in his face for most of his life. "Attend to the family business. Work with Father on his investments. Probably be staring down a list of eligible Pureblood girls."

"Would you rather be doing that…or this?"

It was far more comfortable to be waking up in his bedroom at home, looking out upon the Manor grounds. Nowadays he slept on cotton sheets covering a creaky mattress, with a view out the window on a dingy alley. He'd breakfasted on meals prepared by house elves with years of experience and skill. Now he usually tossed a granola bar into his pocket and grabbed a thermos of coffee before Apparating to work. He'd been shown respect before by even the highest-ranking members of government – now he was treated with grand contempt by most everyone.

But Granger had asked him what he'd be doing. Truth was, he enjoyed this life in a certain fashion. He made the rules of his own life – he was the one making the decisions about where he'd go, what he'd do. There was no one to please except for Oddsbodds, and that was more in line with doing his job well – which he really rather enjoyed. Each day was a new puzzle.

"This," he replied softly. Draco felt as if he'd been cracked open, and the hinges were swaying in the breeze, so open was he to Granger's frank eyes. He'd certainly never been this open to someone outside the family.

He could have been romancing a string of Pureblood beauties, hoping against hope for something resembling the affection between his parents, likely settling for a partnership of convenience. But here he was, shunned by most witches still in England – except for one infuriating, impossible witch who looked at him like he might be worth something good.

Granger gave a firm nod of approval. "I thought so. Malfoy, I'm not trying to butter you up or anything, but you are phenomenal at this job."

He blinked at her, slow and stupid in his bewilderment. "What?"

"You're phenomenal at this job – you see the patterns, the motivations, the clues, almost as if they're jumping up and down and yelling at you." Granger's head was cocked in his direction, and he could only see sincerity in her eyes – no calculation or manipulation. "You've always been good at this – I mean, you figured out how to follow us to Hagrid in our first year. You kept catching us again and again when that horrid Umbridge woman was running things, and-" Granger stopped short, but he could tell that she'd been about to praise his genius in figuring out how to try to kill Dumbledore. She was trying to spare his feelings.

Draco realized that he could live with being this open to Granger, if she continued to treat his vulnerable insides with this awkwardly gentle touch.

"Look, I love Harry – no, _not_ in that way!" she exclaimed at his raised eyebrow. "But as good as he is as an Auror, he's not one for Investigations. Granted, he tries, and he knows when something's off, but he can't always figure out what it is.

" _You_ were made for this job, Draco," she continued. "And you know it. When Harry wrote you back, I was afraid that you were going to shut me out." Her cheeks colored a bit, but she rushed out the next sentence as if it refused to be kept inside her. "And I like working with you."

He leaned over towards her in a confidential manner. "Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?"

She smiled, a bit self-consciously. "It's entirely possible that she was the victim of someone with a vial of Polyjuice potion. Or, despite herself, she's able to see someone who loves his work enough to work with someone who disgusted them."

"You never disgusted me." It's kind of true, anyway. "You annoyed the hell out of me. Still do."

"Funny, because you made a pretty good show of disgust." There wasn't any heat behind her words, but a persistent curiosity.

Draco sighed. He'd anticipated this conversation, but didn't relish the thought of it.

"Being a Pureblood meant that you were the cream of the crop," he said, raspy as he swigged from his water canteen. "Don't make that face at me – I'm explaining how it was. If someone's born to royalty – well, they're going to start thinking about what separates them from others. My father used to say that dragons didn't mate with beasts of the field. If your parents say it long enough, you start to internalize these things."

Also, he'd wanted to please his father, though that went unsaid.

"But the Dark Lord, the one my father said would always set things right…things were so different from how he'd said it would be." He could not hold Granger's eyes, but fixed his gaze on a piece of loose tiling on the floor. Draco could feel her watching his face intently. "Even if you weren't a Pureblood, they let you in if you swore to do harm to his enemies – look at the giants. Look at Greyback.

"Purebloods got no special treatment – my father's wand was taken from him, and the Dark Lord sent me to…" his voice broke slightly, but he recovered. "To kill…just to torment my parents, because they knew it was an impossible task. When the Dark Lord set me to torturing those who weren't successful on their missions, their screams-" he broke off again, looking right at her, "-their screams were just like your screams."

Granger went pale at that, dropping her gaze to her trainers. "I don't want to talk about that," she said edgily. Draco cursed himself – he was supposed to be a Slytherin, supposed to have that ability to think ahead and plan out every situation. This situation, however, had already veered wildly out of control.

"I know, but for what it's worth, Granger, I'm sorry for not doing anything at the time." The words flew out of his mouth, and he swallowed hastily, as if he could bite them back and not risk her fury.

When she lifted her head to face him once more, he realized that he had been talking to the real Hermione Granger. Not Granger the champion of Muggle-borns, or Granger the Great Friend of Potter, or Granger the Girl Genius, or even Granger the Investigator. She was a woman, full of imperfections, strengths, desires, regrets, and dreams.

And now he got the feeling that she was looking at him in that exact same way – not as Draco the Death Eater or Draco the Bully, or even Draco the Reformed Criminal. Maybe…maybe he was just a man in her eyes that moment.

"I think you've convinced me, Draco," she said, looking at him as if he were unreal and unexpected. He felt himself swell up – not in indignation, but in pride that someone could look at him in such a way. "And I accept your apology."

He almost nodded in acceptance – until he realized what she'd said. "Malfoy."

She gave him a rueful smile that lit up her eyes, a luminescence that hit him right in the pit of his stomach. "Nah. Draco suits you better."

He felt a twitch at his lips. It felt like the beginnings of a smile.

"Do I call you Hermione now?"

She shrugged diffidently. "If you want. I understand if you don't. It's a mouthful." She paused. "Thank you for not immediately making a dirty joke out of that."

He laughed, and realized that she smiled at his smile. "It did cross my mind."

"Restraint. You have no idea what a gift that really is," she smiled back at him.

There was an awkward pause, but Granger rushed to fill it. "We've got to get back to the Ministry!"

"Why?" he asked, perplexed and oddly exhausted.

"Because we need to have a strategy for investigating any new evidence ready to go for Oddsbodds' approval tomorrow!" Granger replied, annoyance creeping back into her voice at his lack of comprehension. "I'll Floo Ron and tell him I'll be staying late. We can grab some sandwiches from the cart on our way in."

Back to work. Well, he supposed recovery from existential breakdowns could wait.


	12. Chapter 12

Oddsbodds led the way into an Auror conference room, an action for which Draco was grateful. It meant that he bore the brunt of the hostile stares from the older Aurors gathered there (of which there were only three, but still…) In one corner, Potter gave a brief, nervous smile to Granger, and only then did Draco understand that Potter had put himself on the line for this request. The three Aurors took it in turns to glare at Draco, which he dutifully returned with disdain.

Their mentor had given suspiciously little reaction at the announcement that his two trainee Investigators were taking this new step. Draco was fairly certain he was more intrigued than angry that his students had gone over his head.

"Here are the facts as we have them so far," said Brutus Bibulus, the lead Auror on the case, a thin, weedy-looking man with a long white scar traveling down his jawline. "When we arrived at the storage warehouse where the shipment of Greek Lotus Syrup ordered with the stolen license was scheduled to arrive, we notified the warehouse supervisor of our arrival, and that we would be staking out the area."

"Was the supervisor Muggle or wizard?" Oddsbodds interrupted.

"Squib," Bibulus said shortly. "We set up a parameter outside the warehouse, Disillusioned ourselves, and waited, trading shifts. Since the Lotus Syrup is only guaranteed efficacious for three days after it's shipped, when the fourth day arrived, we knew the suspect wasn't going to arrive."

"He – or she –" Oddsbodds amended at a glance from Granger, "must have known that we knew about the license. But how?"

"That," said Bibulus, with a sigh, "is what we can't figure out. Orfin here-" he indicated the wizard beside him, with oddly blunted features and almost no neck – "performed the Disillusionment on everyone before they Apparated to their chosen points. We had eyes on the warehouse and eyes on all potential points from which the suspect could have been watching. We had someone watching the Squib at all times."

"What is the Squib's _name_?" asked Granger in a testy sort of tone.

Bibulus blinked at her, obviously unused to being addressed so abruptly by someone less than half his age. "Icarus Dewey."

"Does anyone know what he was doing during the war?" Granger asked. "Did he lose anyone?"

A slow smile spread across Bibulus's face. "He's a Squib, Ms. Granger," he said kindly (and, Draco noted, more than a bit condescendingly). "If he'd done anything to alert the suspect, we'd have caught it."

"Not necessarily," Granger retorted. "Muggles have come up with a surprising amount of technology to make up for their lack of magic. Squibs are aware of the difference, so they have to be twice as clever in front of their wizarding kin. And you don't need to be a wizard or a witch to mix some potions."

Draco shifted. Granger had raised an excellent point – clearly, she'd been thinking about this a lot longer than he had once they'd finally left the MLE the night before.

"The fact remains that Mr. Dewey is a Squib," remarked Orfin, in a gravelly voice. "Under You-Know-Who, he'd have been as much in danger as a Muggleborn or a Muggle - unless he'd gotten in with the right folks."

Bibulus sat back in his chair, exchanging a glance with Oddsbodds. "We'll bring him in for some additional questioning."

Potter, Draco noticed, regained some of his color at this change in tone. He wondered if the Boy Who Was the Answer to Everything would have paid in a loss of status if this meeting turned up nothing – and then that turned him on a completely different path of thought.

"Did Dewey mention how the suspect paid for the warehouse space?" he asked. "I'm assuming it was done anonymously, or with a _nom_ _de_ _plume_. If there's a bank account number with Gringotts', though, we might be able to convince the goblins to trace it."

"The name was a fake," Bibulus confirmed. "Stebbins worked with the information that Dewey gave us. Dewey's story was that a man who called himself Autolycus Trunk paid cash for the storage space. Made the reservation with the fellytone or the cellophane and sent in a letter through the mail without an address to show where it came from." Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Hermione's eye twitch, and figured that Stebbins had mispronounced something Muggle-related – though he was damned if he could figure out which one it was. Muggles had far too many strange devices, including that odd device that they pecked and communicated with…

"What was he doing while you watched him?" Draco asked, the thought taking instant shape in his mind and bursting to run free. "Was he working on one of those com- _pew_ -ters?" He shot a brief glance at Hermione to see if she was following (and if he'd pronounced the device correctly.) Her eyes were wide, and he felt a rush of relief to know that he hadn't gotten his Muggle technologies wrong.

Bibulus frowned. "That's the little box they watch?"

"No, that's a television," Hermione broke in. "Who was watching him?"

"Me," spoke up the other, heretofore silent Death Eater. "Walter Willoughby," he continued, by way of introduction. "All that man did the entire time I was there was talk to a few customers dropping things off and picking things up. Otherwise, he worked on that com- _pew_ -ter, like this." Willoughby gave a demonstration of using various fingers to poke at the table.

"He was typing," said Hermione, looking excited. "You can easily send a message through a computer to someone else by typing. Do you have that computer?"

"We don't," Bibulus said flatly. "There was no need at the time. Besides, we'd need a warrant, and that, Miss Granger, requires probable cause. We need more than that."

Silence fell over the room.

"Where is this storage space?" Draco asked, trying to fill up the heaviness of the silence.

"Tinworth. Little on the dodgy end," replied Bibulus, looking impatient.

The kernel of an idea began to grow in Draco's head. "Hermione, that illegal selkie skin trade we investigated – wasn't that scene in Tinworth?"

Hermione furrowed her brow. "I believe so."

"The selkie skin can only be transported at certain dates, in certain phases of the moon, for it to be efficacious," Draco continued. "If you were trading in that area, you'd need a storage facility that alerted you if the selkie or her mate came looking for it. If they came to a place run by a Muggle, the Muggle would probably report it to their law enforcement. If it was run by a Squib…they'd know what to look for, and know who to call to keep it quiet. That selkie we interviewed said that others had searched the area, and they thought they'd come close, but nothing was ever reported."

He broke off, searching the astonished faces of the Aurors in front of him. "Are there any other Squibs, wizards, or witches running storage units there?"

"Not…not that I'm aware of," said Bibulus. "That just might be enough for probable cause. And while we're there – we will pick up this com- _pew_ -ter for Ms. Granger to examine." Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Hermione nod jerkily, caught Oddsbodds' hands relaxing on the tabletop.

Bibulus, Willoughby, and Orfin stood up and nodded, Potter trailing in their wake like a lost puppy. Draco would never tire of the knowledge that Potter had to work his way up through the Auror program, despite having the way smoothed for him by Voldemort's defeat. Potter turned at the doorway to exchange a glance with Hermione – Draco could not tell what passed between them.

Wordlessly, Oddsbodds stood and faced them. "My vunderkinds," he intoned, the apples of his cheeks bunching and relaxing. "I hope you know this will double our workload."

Draco felt his stomach hit his toes.

"And I couldn't be prouder. Well done, you two. Well done. Be ready to report when they get back from Tinworth."

He left, and Draco blinked, astounded by his own daring and by his boss's reaction.

Hermione swiveled in place to face him, beaming. "Told you that you were good at this, didn't I?" she grinned.

Draco felt himself returning the grin, feeling it warm up his insides.

* * *

It looked almost as if Hermione was playing the piano – though all he could hear were pat-pat-pat sounds as her fingers worked the odd display.

Draco studied Hermione closely as her fingers flexed across what she had called a keyboard. She appeared not to even be looking at the little plastic tabs that she pressed, but studied the changing screen. He'd moved slightly away from the computer after jumping out of his seat at the blare of trumpets as the computer seemed to come alive. Hermione must have noticed, but chose not to comment.

"How do you do that?" he asked, figuring a compliment couldn't hurt. "You're not even looking at the…are they called keys?"

"It's just something you pick up over time," Hermione replied, not taking her eyes from the screen. "Kind of like how you fly on a broomstick. Pretty soon, you figured out how to judge distance and how fast you could get there, without even really thinking about it."

He preened for a moment – even a Gryffindor had taken note of his skills! Hermione interrupted his thoughts, tapping on the screen with a fingernail.

"I'm in," she said, looking pleased. "He really shouldn't make his log-in automatic."

"Uh-huh." He had no idea what she was talking about. "In what?"

"Never mind," she said, using the mouse (which looked nothing like a mouse to Draco) to make the screen change several times, her middle finger deftly spinning a wheel on the device. "What was the date of the break-in? October the fourth or fifth?"

"The fourth, I think." Draco had to look away as the screen peeled downward at a rapid rate. He was used to quickly changing landscapes on his broomstick, but this made him feel a little queasy.

"I really hope he's not the kind of guy who regularly deletes everything," Hermione murmured, more to herself than to Draco, he thought. "If he did, I could probably get past that, but it would require bringing in a Muggle forensic expert and Obliviating them afterwards."

Draco didn't know what to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Ah-ha!" Hermione crowed in exultation. "Here it is!"

"Can you read it?" Draco asked, "That screen gives me nausea."

"It's addressed to one PeakesBarnaby ," she read.

"What?"

"Like an address on a letter," she said impatiently. "Listen to this – _Can't type much, being watched by the Aurors. They've found the site. Don't come for the shipment – they'll be waiting. Dewey._ Draco, this could be _it_. We may have broken the case! _"_

Draco felt ice water pour through his veins. Hermione turned to look at him, her face somewhere between excited and horrified. " _Peakes._ Jimmy Peakes was in my house, but…he died at the Battle of Hogwarts. Snuck back in with Colin Creevey - they were underage."

"Is this Barnaby fellow his brother or father, then?" Draco said, peering closer to look at the images on the computer, despite his nausea, leaning on the other piece of equipment that seemed to come with the computer.

"Probably," Hermione said. "At least there's a good chance of it in the Wizarding world. I'll print this out, and we can look at Dewey's other correspondence with Peakes." She moved the mouse around a few times more, clicking and tapping. Suddenly, the machine Draco leaned against roared to life. He sprang away with a yell.

"What's wrong with it?" he cried out, fingers twitching for his wand. "Is it charmed against strangers?"

"Nothing's wrong." Hermione said calmly. "It's just printing." A moment later, the machine spat out a sheet of paper that Hermione took and held out to him. "We can take that to Oddsbodds – if Peakes was watching Dewey for any reason, or was supposed to hear from him, he'll be on the run. If this is enough for a warrant, they need to bring him in now."

She seemed to stop a moment. "Actually, it might be better if you took it to Oddsbodds. I can keep looking so we don't lose any time. If it's not Peakes, and someone was clever enough to use his name as their e-mail address, we should at least be able to rule him out and use the rest of the correspondence to track who it really is."

Draco looked down at the paper. The short message, appearing just as it had on the computer, was the key, perhaps, to solving months and months of dead ends, wrong turns, and children like Dai. Hermione was offering him the chance to run in triumphantly before their boss, to be the one associated with it in the eyes of the Aurors and the rest of the Investigations Department. It was a very…Gryffindor move.

Obviously, he would have to counteract it.

"No," he said. "We figured this out together, so we both get the credit. Come on." There was a split-second to enjoy the surprised curve of her smile before he held the door open for her, and they sprinted out.

* * *

Author's Note: One more to go, then on to the next story!


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Last chapter! Little bit of bad language from Draco near the end, but I think he figured he was entitled at that point.

* * *

Thankfully (in Draco's opinion, at least), the warrant for Peakes' arrest and the search of his home proved without a doubt that he was the kingpin behind the surge in Catatonius abuse.

A Muggleborn, he'd been familiar with Muggle technology – enough so that Draco and Hermione found the mate to every e-mail that had been sent from Peakes to Dewey. Skilled at potions, Peakes had warded his workshop competently, enough so that it took them several hours to break through (and needed Bubble-head charms once they succeeded, against the cloying smell of the drug).

Smart enough to know that his Half-Blood son would be safe at Hogwarts when the Ministry fell, Peakes had not been so successful with himself and his wife, Pearl – they'd been interrogated, found guilty, and thrown into Azkaban. Already in fragile health, Pearl Peakes had passed away inside the prison after a few months, and Barnaby Peakes had only the thought of his son to sustain him through his imprisonment.

He'd been released, brought back to Hogsmeade – only to find out that his son had perished in the Battle of Hogwarts.

All of the previous facts could be backed up and verified. Of Barnaby Peakes' terrible grief, however, Draco could find no evidence but discarded and crinkled pillowcases in the house. Puzzled, he ran an analysis on them – finding them soaked in the saline of old tears.

After three days of collecting evidence from the Peakes home, Draco returned to the Investigations Department to find Hermione blotting her own tears with a handkerchief, her back to the door.

"Are you all right?" he asked uncertainly. He was not as uncomfortable around weeping witches as other wizards usually were – Pansy's spur-of-the-moment waterworks had prepared him in that sense.

"I'm fine," Hermione said, wiping hurriedly at her face. She thrust a small stack of parchment at him. "Harry gave me a copy of Peakes' statement."

Draco took it with some trepidation and began to read.

 _BIBULUS: And you have been giving the Catatonius potion to witches and wizards, gratis?_

 _PEAKES: Only to those that needed it. I'm not like that scum in Knockturn Alley. I don't sell to kids or idiots looking for fun. And I did take some things._

 _BIBULUS: What kinds of things?_

 _PEAKES: What I couldn't get elsewhere. Portkeys, equipment for the potions. I took some money from those who could afford it to buy the ingredients and to shut that scum Dewey up._

 _BIBULUS: Mr. Peakes, you do realize that this means long-term imprisonment for you. Despite your intentions, the court is unlikely to look kindly on anyone distributing illegal potions. Several have ended up in St. Mungo's for overdosing and nearly dying. More than a few of those witches and wizards have dependent children._

 _PEAKES: Mr. Bibulus, imprisonment holds no horrors for me. Living, however…that's fresh horror every day. Each morning, when I don't wake up with my wife beside me…when I don't get an owl from my son telling me how well he played at Quidditch…that's all the horror I'll ever need. You tell me, Mr. Bibulus, how prison compares to being without my family. When you have something so wonderful in your life – and then it – and then they're gone, why is it that you only remember the loss? I'm trying to help people remember the good things._

Draco didn't want to read any more. Beside him, Hermione seemed to have gotten control of her tears, slumping into her desk chair.

"There's more," she said croakily. "Bibulus asked him for the names of the people he'd given the potion to. He knew all of their names by heart. All of their stories. It completely matches the list we found."

He didn't need to ask what list she meant. When the Aurors had taken Cootes into custody, they'd found the parchment, folded into squares, in the breast pocket of his robes, right next to a tattered picture of the Peakes family. The image had stuck with him – Barnaby Peakes, standing proudly beside their front door. Pearl Peakes stood beside him, pink-cheeked and grinning broadly. Between them perched Jimmy Peakes, no older than three or four, swinging between their arms. Pearl seemed to be torn between smiling for the camera and making sure her son didn't fall. Barnaby seemed to have the same problem, but seemed more confident of his son's ability to stay in their arms.

"What if he was right?" Hermione whispered. "What if we're doing the wrong thing?"

"We're not," Draco said firmly. "Hermione, we're _not_. Remember Dai? His father's going to be a long-time, if not a permanent resident at St. Mungo's. Dai can't remember his mother, but he's never going to forget finding his father half-dead on the floor and running to the neighbor's for help. Should we start him on a regimen of Catatonius?"

He sat down heavily beside her, staring at his hands. "No matter how much it hurts, you can't run away from the bad things. That's the only real way to remember the good things."

Hermione looked over at him, and he wasn't sure he liked the speculation in her gaze.

"You don't have to answer this…but is that why you stayed here?"

Draco hesitated, but then shrugged. "That was... kind of the rationale, yes."

He could see that she wanted to ask more, but was restraining herself. He was grateful for that.

"Do you think we could give this back to him?" he asked hesitantly. "I mean, it's evidence right now, but after the trial and sentencing…"

"I think so," Hermione said in a small voice.

Now that look in her eyes…he could live with that.

* * *

" _I'm not going." Actually, he was considering it, despite his many misgivings about this being another step in the wrong direction. Father hadn't said where they were going, but he'd give just about anything not to go back to the Manor. Too many screams echoed throughout the hallways, too much blood soaked the floor. The Manor was no longer the happy setting of his childhood – it had been steeped in horror, and the memories could not be washed out of the walls._

 _They were under house arrest, awaiting the moment when the Ministry would have them taken up for trial. Until then, proximity wards were stationed around the Malfoy grounds, Aurors ready to swoop in should they step outside the grounds. Father had decided to risk it, though, once Ollie the house-elf had managed to filch a Portkey from the Ministry._

 _Father had also been very, very wrong about a great deal of the strategic moves he'd made in the past few years. Before he left this place for good, however, Draco wanted him to admit it._

" _What do you mean?" His father stopped in his tracks. The enormous travel bag beside him stopped in its tracks as well, supported as it was by Ollie. Mother also paused, her brow furrowing as if she wasn't hearing him correctly._

" _Exactly what I said," Draco replied, setting down his bag. "I'm not running away again."_

" _This isn't running away," Father said, looking impatient. "This is a strategic retreat to keep out of Azkaban. Now, come along."_

" _I've run away before, I know what it feels like," Draco said snidely. "And strategic retreat? Really? The Dark Lord is dead at last. Bellatrix is dead. Most of the Death Eaters are dead or captured. We'd be better off here, working to restore our name. Mother, do you really think Potter won't speak up on your behalf? You did save his life, after all."_

" _Restore our name? In the eyes of who? Potter? Mudbloods? The blood traitors?" His father snorts, but there's desperation coloring his tone. "We must find other like-minded wizards in the world. The Malfoy name is respected internationally-"_

" _Not anymore," Draco spits back. "We lost all pride with both sides, if you don't remember. In the last two years, the thing I'm proudest of is lying to you when you asked if it was Potter." It's true – nothing was forcing his hand when he refused to identify Potter, no threats against himself or his parents. Just the thought that perhaps, if he kept Bellatrix from summoning the Dark Lord, Potter would have a chance to destroy him. He was risking his own life far more surely in that split-second action than in the entire year he spent trying to kill Dumbledore. Even so, there was a measure of satisfaction in what he did._

" _You knew?" He was braced for his father's shock and dismay, but not for when Mother's face went slack, and her disappointment was written across her brow. "We could have been honored…Draco, it could have been over weeks ago, and we could have been honored above all others!"_

 _His father's mouth was still hanging open in shock._

" _Look at what happened to Snape," Draco spat. "An honored Death Eater – but when he got in the way, the Dark Lord had him killed without a second thought. Is that the ruler you hoped to follow? Look at our choices! Look where they've gotten us!"_

 _He had never before raised his voice to his mother. Not once._

" _This…we'll talk about this later. Now, Draco, come on!" Father rolled his eyes, tried to grab at his arm to pull him along. Those were the wrong words to say. Draco could hear an echo of them in Snape's voice as they struggled to run from Hogwarts. Bellatrix had been cackling madly, the Carrows cursing foully as they dueled with the Order of the Phoenix. All he could think of was running as far away from the old man's dead body as he possibly could._

 _He's tired of being screamed at, given orders, trying to hide from responsibility. Everyone had told him how to live his life – hate these people, make this person your friend, kill Dumbledore, wear this Mark, torture these people, tell us if this is Harry Potter!_

 _For one moment, though, he'd acted of his own volition – not to please someone else, or do as someone else ordered. If he leaves with his parents today, that memory will fade into the old routine of following orders, and the one moment in which he'd only been Draco Malfoy would disappear._

 _No more. He's ready to be a man now. This is the only way he's going to be able to walk through life without constantly seeing the dead faces of Dumbledore and the Muggle Studies professor, the screaming faces of Yaxley and Dolohov, Crabbe's face paralyzed in pain, before crumpling and charring in the Fiendfyre's grip._

" _I love you both," he said, voice shaking. "But I'm staying here."_

 _There was more pleading, and Draco had to use his wand to prevent his mother's attempts at stunning him and dragging him along. In the end, his mother, anger evaporating, pressed her smooth cheek against his own, weeping, hugging him till he thought his ribs might crack._

 _Eventually, however, the Portkey glowed blue, and Draco backed away to keep his mother from yanking him forward. His father, however, turned his back. Draco raised his hand in farewell as the three of them winked out._

 _The Manor was suddenly very, very quiet. Draco sat down on the staircase and waited for the Aurors to come._

* * *

Hermione had left him to his reverie, scratching out notes on a sheaf of parchment. He sighed and pulled out his own notes.

He'd only found one Death Eater mark carved into his desk this week. Progress, he supposed.

They sat in companionable silence for over an hour, the fire crackling behind them as the only sound. Both were compiling their progress reports for the department, organizing their notes into documents that would come under scrutiny at trial. This was the rhythm of things – being called to account for something, and backing it up with what you could. Draco liked it.

Oddsbodds broke the silence, stepping into the small office and folding his hands across his portly belly.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," he said formally. "I wish to be the first to announce that you will be moving up to becoming accredited Investigators within the week. I've also made the recommendation that you two remain working together as partners – you do work so very well together. There will be more to discuss, but I thought you could use this announcement to keep you going as you sort through the Peakes house."

Both Draco and Hermione struggled to their feet and began shaking Oddsbodds' hands, thanking him profusely. Once Oddsbodds had left, grinning heartily, Draco turned to Hermione with a smile of his own. To his surprise, she was smiling…at the thought they would be working together?

He wondered if she would hug him, or if she'd shake his hand as she had with Oddsbodds. Did this mean that she was happy about being his partner? Was he supposed to hug her back, if she hugged him?

Some of his consternation seemed to show on his face, because Hermione's smile dropped, and she withdrew slightly.

"I'm going to go run and tell Harry," she said, a little lamely. "But I'll be right back."

He nodded, and wished that he had someone he could run and tell. He could Floo 'Meda and Teddy, but he'd see them tomorrow, and could save it as a surprise.

The joy that had so recently taken root began to ebb, and Draco decided to take an early lunch rather than face Hermione and sort out whatever had just happened between them. Grabbing his pail, he headed out to his usual nook in the Ministry's back hallways, settling down with a sigh on a backless bench.

So Hermione…wasn't unhappy about being his partner? And why was he happy to hear that he wouldn't be transferred elsewhere?

The first, he decided, was because Hermione saw it as her duty to stick up for those she sympathized with, and couldn't stand the thought of being proven wrong about anything. Why she testified on his behalf was still a mystery, though. If he'd had the chance to be revenged on someone to do the kinds of things he'd done, he'd have taken it. Even if she didn't have the desire for revenge – what led her to stick up for him in the first place? He shook his head and moved to the next thought burrowing in his guts.

Did he… _like_ Hermione Granger? Swotty as they came, believing that she knew what was best for everyone, she had an odd charm about her, something that led him to trust her. You could confide in Hermione, and she wouldn't tell, unless she thought your life was in danger. He wouldn't have to work for trust with someone else in the department, and he liked arguing with her – at least when she wasn't being unreasonable.

The object of his thoughts suddenly appeared before him, and a carrot stick fell from his nerveless fingers.

"I was going to suggest we go out to lunch to celebrate," Hermione started. "But I came back and you weren't there."

"Took an early lunch," he said dryly, avoiding the question in her statement and focusing on the two cups she held in either hand. "What's that?"

"Frozen yogurt. Your favorite flavor is peach, I believe." She proffered the cup in his direction, but he didn't take it.

He could only blink in shock. "You've been stalking me."

"No, I've been observing you. There is a difference."

The beginnings of an awful, awful suspicion whispered through his mind. "Granger…were you assigned to keep tabs on me? Become my friend, watch my movements?"

" _No_ ," she said firmly, in such an affronted way that he didn't doubt her. "I think there may be other people doing that. Watching you. But if they wanted someone to sidle up to you, they wouldn't have chosen me, you know."

She was right. They would have chosen a pureblood, someone of dubious allegiance, someone whom he had little prior contact with. He nodded, his shoulders relaxing, and took the cup of yogurt from her.

"Thank you."

"Can I sit down with you, then?" she asked, in such a way that he knew she felt awkward saying it.

"Aren't you afraid of being seen with me?"

"No. And besides, we work together, right? We're partners."

"It's different on the outside," he replied dismally.

"It always is, isn't it?" she said thoughtfully. "It doesn't have to be, you know."

"But it is," he replied doggedly. "And besides, I don't want your boyfriend punching me out for having lunch with his girl."

"Ron's not the boss of me," she said heatedly – though he didn't think the heat was directed at him. "But you're right, he does tend to jump to conclusions like a kangaroo high on a Cheering Charm."

He nodded, feeling relieved and disappointed all the same.

"So turn around and straddle the bench."

"What?"

She huffed. "Just _do_ it."

Well, she _had_ brought him the frozen yogurt. He shrugged and turned away from her to straddle the bench, knees wide, and waiting for what she was going to do. To his surprise, he heard the rustle of clothing before a back pressed up against his own. Hermione's frame was small – he could feel the back of her head pressing against his shoulder blades, tendrils of her hair tickling his neck. She pressed close to him, and it was hard not to concentrate on the ripple of her vertebrae, the warmth of her body, the intimate movements of her breathing that made him so conscious of his own. It was like a backwards hug, and all the tension left him, an enervating looseness left in its wake.

"Since you're so worried, if someone looks down this corridor, all they'll see is me straddling the bench, eating my yogurt."

"You do know that my head sticks up above yours, right?" he said, enjoying the closeness of another person too much to protest again.

"If people ask, I'll tell them that I got a new blond hat."

Despite himself, he felt a grin stretch across his lips. "Friends?" he asked, wishing he could take the word back as soon as it left his lips.

He felt a rolling motion against his neck that meant Hermione had turned her head to the side. "Friends," she confirmed, reaching out a long-fingered hand, which he took briefly, almost as if they were shaking on an agreement. "I've got your back."

Perhaps this was what not being lonely felt like. "And I've got yours."

She squeezed his fingers. "And drinks are on you tonight."

"What?"

"I will not believe you if you say you don't drink. I'm as boring as they come, and I drink."

"I do drink. But you're not boring. Occasionally irritating, but never dull."

She made a little humming noise, and Draco interpreted it as a pleased sound. He liked it, and decided to give not being lonely a shot.

* * *

There was a swagger in his step as Draco left the Ministry later that day. Possibly it was the wrong thing for him to do. He sensed the presence of two men behind him. While this used to be a thing of comfort, nowadays, it put him on edge. The continuing silence didn't help matters.

He was almost to the Apparition point-

"Looking mighty pleased with yourself, aren't you?" a voice snarled. Draco gave up the pretense of ignoring them and turned around to face two burly men – from the Quidditch offices, if he wasn't mistaken. Oddly, they could have passed for Crabbe and Goyle's distant cousins – boulder-sized, boulder-shaped, and boulder-fisted.

"Suppose I am," Draco said, cursing the fact that he'd gotten out of work a few minutes early for the first time in ages. No one else was around. "What's that to you?"

"Means that probably someone else – someone on our side – just got royally buggered," said the one on the left, honey curls bobbing on his forehead. "Means that you aren't paying your dues."

"I was pardoned," Draco said flatly. The men snorted derisively, and he turned to keep walking. The men, however, kept pace with him, hemming him in on either side. Draco felt himself go on edge. Instead of the shell he'd been using to deflect these things for years, however, he felt the reassuring points of teeth.

"So if Shacklebolt and the court's decision isn't enough for you, and Potter and Granger's testimony on my behalf isn't enough…"

"It isn't," said the other man, flexing his beefy fingers.

"Then I've got a question for you," he said, trying to estimate how close he was to the point.

"What's that?" the second man demanded.

He was there. Draco stopped, then deftly turned to face them, taking a few steps forward as he did so, his hand going to his pocket.

"When I tell you to go fuck yourselves, will you put it down to me being pleased with myself, or a high estimate of your athleticism?"

The men's arms shot out, and Draco realized he'd cut it too fine, no matter how good it felt to get his old pride and snark back. He braced himself for the coming blows, clenched his fists in preparation-

And watched as the two wizards went flying backwards. Draco blinked in shock and looked back to the origin of the spell.

Hermione stood there, wand pointed, looking as annoyed as he'd ever seen her- but not at him.

Granger kept her promises. He wouldn't forget his.

* * *

 _The nice thing about teamwork is that you always have others on your side. – Margaret Carty_

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you, and much love to everyone for sticking with me and reading this far! The next installment, "Remedies for Love" will amp up the romance angle, I promise. Hoping to get the first chapter up next week!_


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